Free Saving Grace by Elle Wylder Page B

jumping when he speaks, arm still concealing half his face.
    “You’re thinking about it too much.”
    “Thinking about what?” I ask cautiously. He can’t know I’m
thinking about him. Us.
    He chuckles and lowers his arm, rolling his head on the
pillow to look at me.
    “Us. This thing between us. It is what it is. What’s the
point in fighting it?”
    I sigh. Days ago, I would have balked at the suggestion but
after the week I’ve had my defenses are low.
    “Go to sleep, baby. It’ll still be here in the morning.”
    I smile. The man is perceptive, knowing I view it as a
problem and will worry over it at the first opportunity. Letting go of it for
now, I roll to my side and he follows, spooning behind me, wrapping his body
around me, his heat around mine. Protecting me, comforting me whether I want
him to or not. I smile again, and letting exhaustion take me, drift off to
sleep.

Chapter
Eight
    Grace

 
    I wake slowly, squint against the sunlight streaming through
the window and stretch my arms high over my head. Judging by the amount of
light pouring in the room, it is late morning. The house feels empty, still and
quiet, but I smell coffee. I should get a couple cups and find Walker. I almost
laugh. How domestic. The urge isn’t like me at all. Then again, I am in
uncharted territory here.
    I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, looking
around the Spartan room. It is small, filled to bursting with his king sized
bed and one long dresser. My gaze stops at it and I smile. He brought my things
in at some point before he left.
    I dress in a hurry in the first thing I pull out, cutoff
jeans and a tank top. I retrieve a gun from an inside compartment. It is in a
small pancake holster that clips to the back inside of my shorts. After tugging
the shirt on, I look over my shoulder in the mirror to make sure it isn’t
visible. The relief is immediate. I still haven’t shaken the feeling of being
hunted, and I am glad I’ve kept up my pistol practice up even if I rarely carry
anymore.
    Leaving the room, I go in search of the coffee pot. In the
kitchen, I find a clean mug, pour a cup of coffee, and look out the back
window. With a grin I reach for the door handle and step onto the new deck. The
last time I was here, at Christmas time, I asked Walker why on earth he doesn’t
have a deck bigger than three by three feet. His back yard is shaded and
overlooks the water. Seems a waste not to take advantage of it.
    He obviously decided to take my advice. The new deck
stretches the length of the back of the house, mirroring the front deck. He has
a grill area outside the kitchen door and a table and chairs in the center. I
pull one out and sit. The porch railing is low and I can easily see over it.
Movement catches my eye in the brush down by the water and I watch it half
interested not quite fully awake, wondering what kind of wildlife lives in
Walker’s backyard. Squinting against the glare I shield my eyes and walk to the
top step leading down into the yard. What the hell?
    “Grace?” I hear the front door slam and Walker call out.
    “Back here,” I holler through the open kitchen door.
    I hear his heavy footsteps as he walks through the house,
stopping inside the door. I stand still, not quite believing what I’m seeing
down by the river. Finally, he comes out, mug in hand.
    “Um, Walker…”
    He sets his cup down on the table and comes up behind me,
putting his hands on my hips and leaning in to nibble my neck.
    “You have a gator in your back yard.”
    “They don’t call ‘ em Alabama yard
dogs for nothing,” he murmurs, dropping a line of kisses up my neck.
    My body strums, but the tension isn’t sexual. There is a
freaking alligator. In his back yard. I step out of his reach, grip the railing
and lean over to look again. Yep. Definitely a gator .
    “I needed some new boots anyway,” I mutter under my breath.
    He laughs and grabs my hand, yanking me back into his
embrace.
    “Roscoe is