Free Smolder: The Wildwood Series by Karen Erickson

his fingers in front of her face, making her blink. “You want to clear the table, or should I?” He said it like a man who’d asked the question multiple times.
    His tone of voice made her stand at attention and practically bristle with good intentions. She needed to focus, not get lost in a haze that took over every time she was in his presence. “If you could, that would be great,” she said. “I’ll start cleaning up in here.” The kitchen was definitely the harder job.
    So they went to work, Lane bringing in dirty dishes and the half-empty platter of chicken. They worked well together, with a quiet efficiency that she could appreciate and he probably didn’t even notice. Clueless was Lane Gallagher’s middle name. And, if it wasn’t, it should’ve been because the man had no clue. None. He couldn’t pick up on a hint, no matter how hard she tried.
    Well, maybe you should smack him over the head with it. Make your feelings for him so obvious he can’t escape them.
    She scraped off plates over the garbage can, then stacked the remaining dishes in the sink. Hadn’t she just told him the ball was in his court? Wasn’t he the one who needed to make the next move? Yet here she was making him dinner because she felt sorry for him and was worried about his mom, about his entire family. But more than anything, she was worried about him. About Lane.
    Who took care of Lane anyway? He was so busy taking care of his brothers and sister, his parents . . . Hell, the entire damn town depended on Lane to take care of them. He watched over them, making sure they were all safe and sound.
    But who made sure Lane was safe and sound? He had needs too. And she wasn’t just talking sexually, though she could satisfy those if he’d just let her.
    Her thoughts drifted to earlier, when he’d barged into the kitchen with his gun drawn wearing just his boxer briefs. The gun had terrified her, she couldn’t lie, but she’d been more distracted by the mostly naked Lane. He was built perfectly. She could imagine winding herself around him, her fingers clutched in his hair, his hands on her waist, sliding down, down, down . . .
    “Are you trying to scrape the color off that plate too?” Lane’s amused voice brought her back and she glanced down, surprised to find herself still scraping a fork across a now-bare plate.
    Clearing her throat, she set the plate and fork into the sink and then turned on the water so she could start rinsing everything off. “You cleared the entire table already?” she asked when she realized that pretty much everything was now either lined up on the counter or filling the sink.
    “Yep.” He opened the fridge and set the salad dressing bottle in the side door shelf. “What else do you need done?”
    They loaded the dishwasher together before she filled the sink with hot soapy water and stuck in the pan she’d used to fry the chicken so it could soak. Then she sent Lane back into the dining room to wipe down the table while she wiped the kitchen counters clean with a damp rag. By the time she was finished, the kitchen shone, and she plunged her hands into the hot water, scrubbing the pan furiously to get the remaining chicken bits and grease off.
    What would it be like, if she and Lane were in a real relationship? Would they be completely domesticated, sharing moments like this every evening? Sometimes she worked late and Lane seemed to work all hours of the day and night, so maybe it wouldn’t be quite like this but it was close enough. She could fix him meals and he could help her clean the kitchen. Then they could go settle in on the couch and watch TV. Play wandering hands for a bit before they became too overcome and started to kiss. Then she’d make him pick her up—because she would bet a million dollars he could lift her, no problem—and carry her into the bedroom. Where he’d strip her naked and proceed to take her straight to heaven.
    The wistful sigh that escaped her was loud. So loud