Free Freight Trained by Sarah Curtis

arm disappeared from around her waist.
    She slid out of the bed, darted her eyes around until she spied the bathroom, then did a quick dash, closing and locking the door behind her.  The bathroom was large like the rest of his house, done in shades of "male" — browns and tans — with a huge tiled, walk-in shower and a separate smaller room that held the toilet, which she didn't hesitate to use. 
    At the sink, she turned on the hot water then looked at herself in the mirror.  Her reflection back was not a pretty sight.  Last night's perfectly applied make-up was now a smeared mess and her long, brown hair a tangled disaster.  Running her fingers through the long strands, clarity slowly replaced the fog in her brain.  Maggie had styled her hair in a braid atop her head.  At some point last night, Cole must have taken her hair down.  For some reason, that action seemed more intimate than the fact that he'd also seen her boobs while he changed her into his T-shirt.
    Deciding thoughts of Cole playing with her hair and seeing her boobs was a road she didn't want to go down, she threw the knowledge into one of her mental boxes and sealed it with industrial-strength, packing tape never to be opened again.
    Feeling almost human after scrubbing her face, finger-brushing her teeth and mouthwashing away all traces of last night's drinking, she cracked open the bathroom door happily noting that Cole was not only out of bed but gone from the room.  She went on a hunt for her clothes, finding them neatly folded on the dresser and slid into her jeans.  She checked her pockets, making sure her phone, ID, and house key were still in place, scooped up her top and shoes, leaving Cole's T-shirt on, not ready to do a full walk-of-shame back to her house in a sparkly halter top, and exited the bedroom.
    Abby paused at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the large open room, spying Cole in the kitchen, cooking at the stove.  He was shirtless, his broad, strong back on full display.  Her eyes fixated on the play of his muscles as he moved, stirring something on the stove, reaching for his coffee mug that rested beside him on the counter.  His smooth, tanned skin was flawless with nothing to distract from the beauty of so much raw masculine power.
    She took a few steps forward, and he turned as if sensing her presence, spearing her with his eyes.  She froze, his look stealing her mobility and those damn butterflies came to life once more.  She pulled her eyes from his, forcing them down to his chest.  Bad idea.  His chest was almost as captivating as his eyes.  Smooth and as flawless as his back, his pecs bulged over a set of rippled abs.  Her appraisal halted abruptly when her eyes encountered a long, jagged scar that started near his navel and extended down toward his hip, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.  The scar was old and faded, not grotesque or scary in the least but what it represented — at the time what must have been a life-threatening injury — chilled her to her bones.
    "Eyes, Abby."
    Her eyes shot back to his.  Lost in her perusal, she hadn't noticed that she'd closed the distance between them and now stood nearly at the threshold of the kitchen.  She couldn't read his expression.  His eyes were hard and his jaw stiff, but his body was fluid as he casually leaned against the counter.
    "Come here, Abby."
    His voice was a commanding growl, and her body shook with the effort to stay in place.  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  "I need to go home."  And she did.  She was in danger here.  Not physical danger, she didn't fear that, but emotional danger.  She'd taken a big step for him, bigger than he'd ever realize, and he pushed her away, twice.  She wouldn't give him the opportunity to do so again.  She still didn't understand his game, didn't understand why she was here, why he hadn't taken her home last night and quite honestly, she didn't want to understand.  If this was what