Free Miranda's Mate by Ann Gimpel

from travel.
    The water was hot and plentiful, the towels fluffy. By the time she combed out her newly bleached hair, it was nearly dark outside. She slid into black combat pants and an oversized long-sleeved wool shirt. It seemed chilly, so she layered a jacket over everything. Someone had left a pair of sheepskin slippers in the bathroom. She tried them on, pleasantly surprised that they fit.
    When she opened the bathroom door, the smell of food cooking hit her in the face. Awesome. I’m hungry. Gee, I had no idea he could cook. Before she went off on a tangent daydreaming impossibilities—like a life with Garen—she smoothed her features into cool neutrality and walked downstairs, comb in hand. The next order of business would be cutting her newly-colored hair.
    His back was toward her as he stood at the stove. It might have been her imagination, but she thought he stiffened before turning to face her. His smile was warm enough, though. “I was wondering whether or not to come upstairs and tell you dinner was about ready.” His eyes widened. “Wow! You weren’t kidding about a lot of blonde around your face.”
    “Too much?” She fingered the damp strands. It had come as a shock to her, too, when she’d glanced in the steamy bathroom mirror. The hair around her face was almost totally platinum with equally light streaks spreading through her dark tresses.
    “No. It was just a surprise. I’m not sure why I thought you’d wait until tomorrow to take care of your hair.”
    “Is there a pair of scissors here?”
    He nodded, yanked a drawer open, and pulled some out. “You have such beautiful hair. It’s a shame to cut it, but I still think it’s necessary. Sit over there. Did you bring a comb down with you? If not, I have one.”
    She held up a comb and waggled it at him. “What? You and Lars both double as beauticians?”
    He favored her with a grin. “We’re a full-service operation, ma’am.”
    “What about dinner? Does it need attention?”
    Garen laughed. It was a rich, warm sound. She didn’t know if she’d ever heard him laugh before. “Does everything that comes out of your mouth end with a question mark, woman?”
    “You just asked one. I really can cut my own hair.”
    “Sit.” He pointed at a chair. When she looked at the table, she saw papers strewn about a fancy-looking laptop with a seventeen-inch screen. He must have been working before he made their dinner. “To answer one of your other questions”—he turned off the stove—“dinner will keep for the few minutes it takes to chop a foot or so off your hair.”
    She sat, laid her comb on the table, and steeled herself to resist his touch. It wasn’t easy. He finger-combed her hair before stabilizing sections with the comb. Miranda aimed for a normal respiration rate, but it was damn near impossible with him so close. Her nipples hardened; despite her upstairs orgasms, her clit swelled with need, and liquid dribbled into her fresh pair of panties.
    “There,” he said with an odd catch in his voice. He cleared his throat. “I think that should do it. We’ll know more once it dries. I’ll just get the broom and sweep up the mess.”
    “I can do that.” She jumped to her feet and almost ran headlong into him. “You, uh, figure out what we need for supper since you know where things are.”
    His face looked flushed, but the light in the cabin was dim. She tried not to look, but her eyes strayed to his crotch. The unmistakable swell of an erection thrilled her. To keep herself from dive-bombing his cock, she hurried across the kitchen and tugged open what looked like a utility closet. She was rewarded by brooms, buckets, and dustpans. Miranda grabbed what she needed and hustled back to the table to sweep up her hair.
    Her head felt pounds lighter. She glanced at the pile on the floor and understood he’d cut her tresses to shoulder length. Probably should have cut it years ago. Hair as long as hers was a liability in the field,