In Too Deep

Chapter Three (Scene 2)

The door closed with a click and West rustled somewhere behind her.

What a nightmare this day had turned into.

A light blazed on and she blinked. They stood in a small entranceway with shoes and boots neatly aligned on the tiled floor, and jackets and other gear hanging on wall hooks beside another door.

West gestured with a thumb. “Ben’s through there. If your brother wasn’t so damn big he could’ve had the office while you slept down here.”

“His feet stick off the end of the futon, huh?”

“Way off. The sofa is not made for guys. You should be okay.”

Piper shucked off the backpack and dropped it to the floor, pressing her lips together to stop a groan of relief from escaping. She unlaced her boots and tugged them and her wet socks off. Looking up, she was level with a superbly taut butt as he bent to remove his boots. West’s shirt rode up to reveal a strip of tanned back and the waistband of some Calvin Klein logoed underwear. Her tongue dried out. Her nerves fizzed, like someone had shot a caffeine bullet into her exhausted body.

Get your head in the game, Pipe. She thrust her gaze down to her pale toes and stood before he spotted her appreciative examination of his rear end.

“Hey—your bag’s leaking,” he said.

She glanced down at the water seeping out of the bottom of her backpack. Ah, crap.

“Here.” He tossed her an old towel and snagged a strap, lifting her backpack as if it weighed nothing. “I’ll take this upstairs.”

“I can—”

“Civil, remember?”

“Right.” She crouched down to wipe the tiled floor and was rewarded with another view of West’s sublime rear as he disappeared up the stairs at the end of the entranceway. Fisher-the-Shrink hadn’t done a thorough enough job picking around in her brain, because she was clearly certifiable.

Piper padded up the stairs into an open-plan family and dining room. Plain but comfortable-looking navy sofas and matching armchairs were positioned in front of accordion glass doors, which opened on to a full-length deck. Framed photographs of native birds hung on the pale walls and only a couple of coasters were stacked on the coffee table. The style was understated and functional, from the airy space of the lounge to the clean modern lines of the small kitchen and wooden dining table.

Where were the Harley Davidson posters, the stack of tatty bike magazines, and the piles of dirty sports gear? When she’d been the annoying little sister desperate to hang out with her brother and his cool friends, West lived in the cottage behind Due South with his parents. Later, he and Ben shared a tiny four room house. But this wasn’t a teenager’s sloppy hangout; this was a man’s home. West was no longer the carefree buddy from her childhood—and she’d best remember that when nostalgia and reality didn’t mesh.

Her shoulders sagged under the weight of memories. Nostalgia sucked.

“I’ve put your bag in the bathroom, first door on your right.” West appeared at her side with a stack of linen. “My office is the next room down. I’ll find you some an extra blankets in a sec.”

Piper blinked the dreamy rose-colored lens from her eyes. “Thanks.”

He offered her a thick white towel. A faded tee shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts were folded on top. “Thought you might want a shower and something dry to change into.”

“Oh—I don’t need those.”

“Did you use a plastic liner in your backpack?”

Know-it-all. “I forgot.”

“Then everything will be soaked. You can throw your wet stuff in the dryer.”

Her eyes widened. Wear West’s clothes?

He hooked the tee shirt up with one finger and dangled it in front of her. “If it makes you uncomfortable…”

“No, not at all.” Oh, she was way beyond uncomfortable. “Uh, I’ll hit the shower now. I’m making a damp patch on your carpet.”

Piper snatched the clothes and towel and marched into the bathroom.

Wrapped in the towel and finally warm after a decadently long time spent using up West’s hot water supply, Piper peeled open her backpack. Yup. Everything was drenched.

With a sigh she pulled on his shorts and picked up the tee shirt. The worn cotton slipped over her head, a shiver skating along her skin as she inhaled his scent. Sure, the tee shirt smelled of whatever laundry powder he preferred, but traces of something uniquely male, uniquely West, clung to the fabric. She slid her arms through the sleeves, letting the shirt caress her nakedness. Her skin, where the shirt touched, felt covered in prickly heat, and her nipples hardened into tiny exclamation points.

Total overreaction girl, you’re losing it.

She’d worn West’s clothes before. At fifteen she kept his Red Hot Chili Peppers tee shirt because he’d never asked for it back. And so what if she still had the shirt stuffed in a bottom drawer back in Wellington? Or if sometimes she’d wear it to bed—but only because it was so comfortable, and hey, she still loved the Chilies.

Piper threw her wet clothes into the dryer and cracked open the bathroom door. The house was silent, except for a faint murmur of a TV or radio from the opposite end of the hallway. With any luck West would’ve gone to bed, since she’d hogged the bathroom for a good half hour. She tiptoed to the room West had indicated and rushed inside. A meticulously organized computer desk sat opposite the futon sofa—the futon which he’d made up with sheets and blankets while she’d been in the shower.

Propped against the pillows lay a hot water bottle.

She sat on the bed and picked it up. West gave her dry clothes, fixed her bed, and filled a hot water bottle, somehow remembering how her feet froze on cooler nights. But, she thought, he didn’t want her anywhere near him.

Piper hugged the warmth of the rubber bottle and hoped the heat would nullify the tiny twinge in her chest.