with her own. “Mr. Huntsman might be a bit … rugged-looking, but he does have a home, and according to William, he’s a formidable warrior, so he would certainly be able to protect you and your babe.”
Fiona started gagging on the bite of meat she’d popped into her mouth. She spit it out in her hand and gaped at Gabriella, utterly speechless.
The girl sauntered back to the table, picked up an armful of folded clothes, and headed toward the bedroom. “And the poor man does appear to be in desperate need of a wife,” the girl said, her laughter trailing behind her.
Chapter Nine
S he was actually going to do it. The little witch intended to serve him goat’s milk again, even though he’d told her he hated the stuff. She must have figured out that he’d been messing with her about putting the skunks in Maddy’s truck, which meant that Kenzie hadn’t been jesting when he’d said Fiona rarely got mad but that she did like to get even.
He couldn’t let her get away with it, of course, or the next thing he knew, she’d be buying his socks. What in hell was it with women, anyway, that they refused to leave a man alone in his misery? Single women were the worst kind of snipers, waiting to ambush the first available chump to step into their crosshairs. And apparently, the more miserable a guy was, the more attractive a target he made.
Yeah, well, he was quite capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. Any soldier who managed to survive boot camp knew how to make a bed, put a crease ina pair of pants sharp enough to cut paper, and shine a toilet with only a toothbrush.
Except he wasn’t in the military anymore, and if he wanted to sleep on dirty sheets, dress in marginally clean clothes, and wash dishes only once a week, it was his God-given right to do so, dammit. And what was so god-awful wrong with a little dust, anyway? Any idiot knew that sterile environments made a person’s immune system so weak that even a common cold could prove deadly.
It wasn’t like he was going to become one of those crazy old hermits who walked around town muttering obscenities at everyone; he was physically and mentally strong. Hell, old Rusty Peterson had looked after himself for nearly a quarter-century, and the feisty ninety-four-year-old probably would have lived to be a hundred if he hadn’t walked in front of that delivery truck on his way to the mailbox last winter.
Seeing Fiona approaching with a tray of food, a large tumbler of milk prominently on display, Trace swept his arm across the table beside his recliner. “Here, let me make a place for you to set that,” he said over the sound of books and magazines, a couple of empty beer bottles, and other small items clattering to the floor.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, though maybe a tad aggressively. She set the tray on the table, then dropped a spotless hand towel onto his lap, presumably for him to use as a napkin. “Is there anything else you’d like me to get you before Gabriella and I go try and catch our two little stink-bomb buddies?” she asked, her smile warm enough to melt butter.
Trace rubbed his hands over his face, tempted to ask herto get him one of his guns so he could shoot himself. “No, I’m fine. Thank you,” he said, keeping his face covered as he listened to her quietly walk away.
Dammit to hell, he didn’t like being waited on by a woman trying to atone for her supposed sins against him. And he sure as hell didn’t like how he noticed the intrinsic grace of her movements, or the way her eyes sparkled like sunshine, or how his heart seemed to speed up and all his blood rushed south whenever he caught sight of her.
Okay; either it had been way too long since he’d had sex, or he really was fatally attracted to walking disasters.
Because he sure as hell was attracted to her.
Trace spread his fingers to make sure she was gone and then lowered his hands to glare at the tray sitting beside him. It was obvious that
Fiona started gagging on the bite of meat she’d popped into her mouth. She spit it out in her hand and gaped at Gabriella, utterly speechless.
The girl sauntered back to the table, picked up an armful of folded clothes, and headed toward the bedroom. “And the poor man does appear to be in desperate need of a wife,” the girl said, her laughter trailing behind her.
Chapter Nine
S he was actually going to do it. The little witch intended to serve him goat’s milk again, even though he’d told her he hated the stuff. She must have figured out that he’d been messing with her about putting the skunks in Maddy’s truck, which meant that Kenzie hadn’t been jesting when he’d said Fiona rarely got mad but that she did like to get even.
He couldn’t let her get away with it, of course, or the next thing he knew, she’d be buying his socks. What in hell was it with women, anyway, that they refused to leave a man alone in his misery? Single women were the worst kind of snipers, waiting to ambush the first available chump to step into their crosshairs. And apparently, the more miserable a guy was, the more attractive a target he made.
Yeah, well, he was quite capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. Any soldier who managed to survive boot camp knew how to make a bed, put a crease ina pair of pants sharp enough to cut paper, and shine a toilet with only a toothbrush.
Except he wasn’t in the military anymore, and if he wanted to sleep on dirty sheets, dress in marginally clean clothes, and wash dishes only once a week, it was his God-given right to do so, dammit. And what was so god-awful wrong with a little dust, anyway? Any idiot knew that sterile environments made a person’s immune system so weak that even a common cold could prove deadly.
It wasn’t like he was going to become one of those crazy old hermits who walked around town muttering obscenities at everyone; he was physically and mentally strong. Hell, old Rusty Peterson had looked after himself for nearly a quarter-century, and the feisty ninety-four-year-old probably would have lived to be a hundred if he hadn’t walked in front of that delivery truck on his way to the mailbox last winter.
Seeing Fiona approaching with a tray of food, a large tumbler of milk prominently on display, Trace swept his arm across the table beside his recliner. “Here, let me make a place for you to set that,” he said over the sound of books and magazines, a couple of empty beer bottles, and other small items clattering to the floor.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly, though maybe a tad aggressively. She set the tray on the table, then dropped a spotless hand towel onto his lap, presumably for him to use as a napkin. “Is there anything else you’d like me to get you before Gabriella and I go try and catch our two little stink-bomb buddies?” she asked, her smile warm enough to melt butter.
Trace rubbed his hands over his face, tempted to ask herto get him one of his guns so he could shoot himself. “No, I’m fine. Thank you,” he said, keeping his face covered as he listened to her quietly walk away.
Dammit to hell, he didn’t like being waited on by a woman trying to atone for her supposed sins against him. And he sure as hell didn’t like how he noticed the intrinsic grace of her movements, or the way her eyes sparkled like sunshine, or how his heart seemed to speed up and all his blood rushed south whenever he caught sight of her.
Okay; either it had been way too long since he’d had sex, or he really was fatally attracted to walking disasters.
Because he sure as hell was attracted to her.
Trace spread his fingers to make sure she was gone and then lowered his hands to glare at the tray sitting beside him. It was obvious that
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