“You want me to lock you out?”
“Yes.”
“What? Why? Are you a werewolf?” And then she remembered Jason’s warnings, and she took a couple of steps forward. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He didn’t acknowledge her words. Instead, he explained, “Door to your house was locked. I could have broken in—still can. Want me to take you home?”
Cassidy bit her lower lip as she watched him. She remembered having a thought about her boat key—her house key was with it. Of course, she wouldn’t have been able to get into the house without them, which is why she was in his bed… on his cot, rather. But she shook her head in answer to his question. “No, I’m okay.”
He continued to the screen door and opened it.
Cassidy glanced around the kitchen. “Wait—were you sleeping on the floor?”
From outside, he let the screen door fall back into place. He rapped on the wood. “Day, latch.”
She looked at the hook and eye mechanism then back to him. “Will you explain this to me?”
“My bullshit. Just do it.”
Cassidy walked to the door, her eyes on him. But she reached up and hooked the latch. His eyes tracked her hand, then swung back to hers again.
“Sleep tight.”
“Okay.”
With a wink, he moved away from the door toward the hammock.
Ridiculous to feel giddy over a wink under these circumstances, but she did. She wanted to unhook the latch and join him in the hammock. But she took a step back. Then another. Eventually, she returned to his room and to his cot.
As she was lying down, she realized the front window gave her a view of him in his hammock. He was already stretched out, one arm over his head, one long, muscular leg hanging over the side so his foot could gently rock him back and forth. Curling up on her side, she watched him, confused by his caution yet touched by his care.
Not every man would sleep on the floor, locking her away to ensure she was safe. Most would have tried to figure out how they could both fit on the cot.
Elijah. Elijah would have done whatever was necessary to keep her safe.
But she didn’t feel unsafe with Mac. Like he said, it was his bullshit. Maybe that’s all it was. He knew he had the potential for night wandering, given his PTSD. He didn’t want to scare her; that was all. But Jason had given her a head’s up. And she wasn’t scared.
As though to add proof, her eyelids drooped. She continued to watch him through the window, his rhythmic, gentle swing of the hammock sending her back to sleep.
Coffee and bacon greeted her, the scents simultaneously invading her slumber, followed by the sizzling sound of the bacon. Her stomach grumbled.
Blinking open her eyes, she grimaced at the bright light. It was morning, and most likely late into the morning. Groaning, she rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow; it smelled like Mac. She breathed in deeply.
“Day!”
She jumped guiltily, moving her nose farther down.
“I heard you; get up.”
Groaning again, she wondered if he’d spent some time as a drill sergeant. She was regretting not letting him break into her house last night. The rest of last night’s events returned to her—the ones she remembered—and she rolled again, half-sitting up on the cot, peering out into the kitchen. Frowning as he glanced in at her, she pointed out, “I locked you out.”
He chuckled. “Do you think I can’t get past that?”
Sitting up, she asked, “Then what was the point?”
He paused, clearly debating what to say and how to say it. He settled on, “A sleepwalker couldn’t figure it out. Trying to open the door would have made enough noise to wake you. Or Fred.”
“Sleepwalker.”