Free July Thunder by Rachel Lee Page A

effect that held him rooted to the spot even as she turned away, apparently accepting his silence as an answer.
    â€œHow many sausage biscuits do you think you can eat?” she asked, opening the refrigerator door.
    â€œUh…” Her question might as well have been spoken in another language. Somehow it didn’t connect with his brain.
    She smiled over her shoulder. “Why don’t you wash up in the bathroom, and I’ll make coffee. The caffeine might clear the cobwebs.”
    He was grateful for the easy escape. Because, for no reason he could figure out, Mary’s tidy little kitchen had suddenly seemed as threatening as a dragon’s lair. As if something awful might leap out at any moment.
    A strange way to react to a gentle smile.
    One look in the mirror over the bathroom sink almost caused him to laugh out loud. He looked like a raccoon, so much smoke, sweat and dirt had stained his face. He was surprised any woman would offer him breakfast, looking the way he did.
    And now that he noticed, his shirt stank of smokeand sweat, too. Oh, man. He ought to slink out of here now, before she noticed.
    Although how she could have failed to notice, sitting right beside him in the truck cab, he couldn’t imagine. Maybe the smoke covered the sweaty smell.
    If he’d had a change of clothes, he might have hopped into her shower. Instead he had to strip off his shirt and do what he could with a washcloth and a bar of soap. And when he was done, it was kind of embarrassing to look at the black stains on the cloth. He rinsed it out as best he could, but it was going to take a heavy-duty trip through a washing machine to save it. And it was pretty, too, not just some colorless white cotton of the kind he owned.
    That was when he noticed that the whole bathroom was pretty. Lavender and lilac and cream dominated in the shower curtain and rug, along with the soap dish and other stuff he never knew the names of. He bet her whole house was pretty. Feminine.
    He and Beth had been kind of basic about such things, preferring instead to spend their money on skiing and a recreational vehicle. Not to mention a boat for fishing on the reservoir.
    There was even a tiny old medicine bottle holding a few tiny dried purple flowers.
    All of a sudden he was uneasy, feeling as if he’d stumbled into a virgin’s bower. Mary McKinney dealt in things he couldn’t begin to fathom, thingslike tiny little flowers and probably satin sachets in her dresser drawers. It was an alien world.
    Moving swiftly, he donned his flannel shirt, thinking that he’d wasted the effort of washing himself. Once again he was enveloped in soot and stench.
    When he returned to the kitchen, taking care not to peer off to the side at her living room—it was probably dripping with cute feminine things—he found her pouring two mugs of hot coffee. The microwave was humming, its digital display on a countdown. She, too, had scrubbed up a little, washing the ashen color from her face and neck, restoring her rosy color. But as she moved closer to hand him the coffee, he could smell the smoke on her, too.
    â€œI’m afraid I killed your washcloth,” he said as he accepted the mug. The cream and sugar were already on the table, in blue willow containers. His mother had done that, too, he remembered with an unwelcome pang. She’d never been content to put the milk on the table in a store container.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” she said pleasantly. “It’s just a washcloth. Two-ninety-nine at the discount store. I’ve got bigger worries.” Then she laughed.
    God, her laugh was incredible. Warm and throaty, seeming to rise from deep within her. Its touch was almost physical.
    â€œSorry,” she said. “I seem to be punchy from lack of sleep.”
    A helpless smile came to his own mouth, like the harmonic response of a tuning fork. Irresistible.“Me, too. Tell you what. Nothing either