Throwing on a fresh pair of undies and a sturdy bra, she paused to stare at her reflection with a critical eye.
He was right. She did look tired. His fault, she reminded herself, pinching her cheeks and adjusting her bra straps. She may not be at her best at the moment, but she would do. All in all, she didn’t look too bad for a woman in her forties.
Her body had never been what she considered bikini-ready—her breasts were too heavy and she’d always had junk in her trunk, even before her sisters assured her it was in fashion. She might occasionally bemoan the faint stretch marks on her thighs that she’d had since puberty, but the lotion Austen had created especially for her kept her skin soft and supple, so she couldn’t really complain.
Her hair was low maintenance, exactly the way she liked it, and she collected lip balms instead of having a makeup regime, which made life easier for her with the added bonus of driving her sisters crazy. She would never have Austen’s fashion sense or Shelley’s edge and she knew it. She was no muss, no fuss and no nonsense Bronte. No big deal.
No shit.
She’d accepted that about herself a long time ago, that she was born to be the favorite Auntie, not the femme fatale. So why hadn’t William gotten the memo? Why did a twenty-four—twenty-five-year-old man with the build of a boxer and eyes like the waters off the coast of Bimini kiss her the way he had? Look at her the way he always did?
Like she was a four-course meal and he was starving to death.
His effect on her was no surprise. Things might be dusty down in Hoo-ha-ville, but everything was still in working order. William Finn was one hell of a specimen and, as her nurses’ aides liked to say, he’d given her a thirst.
Lord, was she thirsty.
That’s not why you’re here.
She’d keep repeating that until it sounded true. The problem was she was overtired and he’d kissed her last alert brain cells into submission. To be fair, he was a kissing savant. Gifted was too much of an understatement when the man nearly melted her panties right off on a public sidewalk.
He’s gifted in other places as well.
The voice inside her head that kept reminding her that technically they were already married so she could find out just how gifted needed to shut the hell up right now.
She hadn’t driven here to find out if the man who’d spent an hour live-texting an episode of Vikings with her was as good in bed as she’d imagined. She’d come because an Irish thug had been trying to contact William through her, and he deserved to be yelled at for it. Simple as that.
It had nothing to do with sex.
The knock on the door made her jump. He couldn’t be here already. She hadn’t had the chance to lie down. She wasn’t even dressed yet.
She must have stared at the open suitcase on the chair for too long, because her phone started ringing—a Salt-N-Pepa song echoing through the smallish room.
Girls what’s my weakness? (Men!) Okay then.
William’s triumphant laugh on the other side of the door made her blush and close her eyes in humiliation. Karaoke and margaritas. Never again.
“I heard that. Let me in, Mrs. Finn. I’ve brought you the best sandwich ever made in Baltimore.”
“Hold on,” she shouted. And stop calling me Mrs. Finn. Grabbing the sweater off the bed to hold in front of her—as if that would help—she ran over to open the door, hiding behind it.
“I’m not dressed. Wait out there so I can throw something on.”
She’d only taken a few steps when the door slammed shut behind her and she heard something drop on the floor. She looked over her shoulder to see William’s broad frame filling the doorway, lunch forgotten at his feet and his eyes riveted on her ass.
“I said to wait outside.”
“You left the door open. I didn’t want to chance anyone walking by.” He didn’t look up. “Go on and dress if you have to, but don’t hurry on my account.”
“You could at least turn around or close your eyes.”
“Why would I do that?” William smirked and she was reminded of the morning after their wedding when she’d finally given in to her desire to punch him. “We’re both adults, Bronte. Married adults,” he added huskily.
“Fine. I’ve got nothing to hide.” She stomped over to her luggage and grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of terry cloth shorts before hesitating. She longed for her comfortable pajamas, but maybe she should put on something that covered more skin. Did she have a suit of armor in there? A nun’s habit?
Anything is better than your old maid underwear.
She turned toward him, hiding her now thoroughly ogled ass from view while she stepped into her shorts. “You think that’s a safer outfit, do you?”