“Fine,” she gasped. “Good. Time to bake anyway.”
She changed into some thermal leggings and a large sweatshirt, the feel of her own fingertips on her skin making her pause. Her fingers felt soft, not rough like Spencer’s. She tugged her hair into a ponytail, irritated, and headed into the kitchen. She would not spend the rest of the evening pining for Spencer. Nope. She was going to do something...that wasn’t Spencer. She smiled, blasted some Christmas carols and set to work.
She could make something else tempting to offer up at the bake sale tomorrow night. But what? Something about baking, which Brent approved of only when they were entertaining, brought out her rebellious side. She’d whipped up a batch of gingerbread, two blackberry-cranberry pies, some fudge, and finished two dozen pizzelle when her phone started ringing.
“Hello?” she asked.
“You up?” Spencer asked.
She smiled, running a finger around the inside of a bowl. “Clearly. It’s a little late for a phone call.”
“I knew I wouldn’t sleep.” His voice was gruff.
“Why?”
“Thinking about you.”
She swallowed, walking from the kitchen into the front room. She glanced out the window. His truck sat there. “You’re sitting in the dark?” She giggled. “Are you trying to have phone sex with me?” There was no way she could do that. It was too...odd. Listening to him telling her what he’d do to her. She felt incredibly warm. She’d touch herself and imagine it was him. Could she do that? Could she let the sound of his voice guide her until she—
“No.”
She drew in a deep breath, willing her heart to return to a more sedate pace. “Oh.”
He chuckled. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“Who said I was disappointed?” she lied. She’d rather he dragged his butt inside and had actual sex with her. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“Tired meaning you’ll be naked in bed waiting for me?” He paused. “Or tired meaning I’ll see you tomorrow?”
She waited, knowing what she’d say but not wanting it to be too easy for him. Oh, to hell with it. “I’ll see you in five minutes.”
She ran to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, tossed her clothes on the floor and slipped the rubber band from her hair. She was running to her bed when she heard the door open. She squealed, hopping into the bed and burrowing beneath the covers. “That wasn’t five minutes,” she called out.
He was smiling when he entered the bedroom. “I never said five minutes.” He started shrugging out of his clothes.
She slid to the edge of the bed, the quilts tangled about her. Her fingers traced a long scar that curved around his side. “What happened here?”
He kicked his pants aside. “A knife. Two guys fighting over a woman in a bar. First week on the job. I was so green. And this is what happened. A tetanus shot and twenty-two stitches.”
“Ouch.” She looked up at him, catchi
ng another white line along his shoulder. “And here?”
He glanced at it. “A broken bottle. Woman didn’t like me breaking up a fight. I didn’t think she had it in her. Guess I was wrong. Eleven stitches and a staph infection.”
She winced. “The one under your jaw?” she asked.
He traced the scar. “My brother Russ.” He smiled. “According to him, I’d been in the swing too long.”
Russ. She saw the flash of pain on Spencer’s face and pressed a kiss on his tattoo. “What happened to him?” she asked, looking up at him.
He shook his head. “I can’t. Not now.”
She nodded, covering his tattoo in slow, openmouthed kisses.
He dropped his boxers.
And she stared at the rest of him. She couldn’t seem to pull enough air into her lungs.