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misread her desire, damn it.
    The line of dripping green survival gear rippled from her movement, her feet padding to the end. His gut knotted. She stepped into view. He forced his eyes to stay locked on her pale face, the dim light of the fire throwing a candlelight glow all around her.
    A sheepish smile played with her lips as she pointed to her matching bra and panties that he would not, would not look at.
    "Red-plaid underwear. Flannel," she declared. Her toes wiggled in her Rudolph socks, a safer place to keep his gaze. "Mystery solved. Nothing near as sexy as a thong."
    He disagreed.
    So much for keeping his eyes on her face. Holiday plaid stretched across her generous breasts, dog tags dangling. The sports-bra style covered much while leaving nothing to the imagination. He didn't need to look further. Her every curve, the dip of her waist, slight flare of her hips stayed imprinted in his photographic memory. His hands remembered well the contrasting feel of her soft breasts and toned muscles.
    And damn it, but he was starting to become aroused. Starting? Hell, he was already there, and no way to hide it.
    Way to be sensitive, dumb ass.
    Wincing, he turned away to stoke the fire, the one in the woodstove, since the one in his boxers was roaring just fine. "Damn, hon, I'm sorry. You're just so—"
    "Josh, please don't go getting all weirded out on me about this." Her feet whispered across the floor, closer, until the heat of her seared his back without their skin even touching. "I'm the same person I was four weeks ago when you walked through our bedroom naked with pretty much the same action going on then as now."
    "Roger. No getting weirded out." He turned, an inch of crackling air between them. "And I'm not. I just don't know how you need me to react."
    "I need you to be honest."
    He wanted to note that honesty from her might have been helpful over the past months, but that didn't seem wise. He stuffed down residual anger at her, himself, and most of all at the bastard who'd hurt her.
    "We have to talk about what you told me."
    "I know we do, and we will. Soon. I promise. It's just not easy." The confident brace of her bare shoulders faltered. "I've never told anyone before."
    No one? In eight years?
    His momentary flash of victory over being the one she'd told faded as he realized how high walls eight years in the making would be. Unease dripped over him like the water plopping from their clothes onto the cracked wood floor.
    He stared down, no answers scrolled on the planks. But he did discover a distraction to buy time until he could figure out what to do next. "Let me see your feet."
    "Huh?" Confusion puckered her brow even as she grinned. "You're one sick puppy, Rose-Bud."
    "I need to check your feet for frostbite."
    "Oh, how are yours?"
    He lifted his bare feet one at a time. "Doing well. I may have some skin peel off, but I'm not going to lose any toes."
    In front of the woodstove, he unfurled the sleeping bags and unzipped them. He draped one for padding and insulation on the floor. He zipped two together to make a double bed—she would just have to live with that because sharing body heat was practical. Then he draped the final open bag over top, musty but clean.
    And too inviting. He stepped back. "Now, sit."
    "Yes, sir." Shooting him a half salute, she dropped onto the dark green beddings and rolled off her socks.
    He crouched on his haunches in front of her. Sitting with her on their bedroll seemed to be crossing a boundary best left in place until after they talked more. He lifted her left foot, grazing his thumbs along the tender instep to check circulation.
    Goose bumps prickled over her very bare skin.
    His gaze jerked up to hers. She was watching him. Intently. Aware. Her breasts rose faster. Only shrieking wind and groaning metal rivets filled the silence between them.
    He returned his focus to her feet, safer territory. Sort of. He rifled through his survival vest in search of the salve for