Bed of Roses Page 0,11

you'd nearly humiliated yourself by moving on him. That would never do.

She wished she could go by and talk over the whole stupid mess with Parker or Laurel or Mac - better yet, all three of them. But that, too, wouldn't do. Some things couldn't be shared even with the best friends in the world. Especially since it was clear Jack and Mac had gotten snuggly once upon a time. She suspected that Jack got snuggly with a lot of women.

Not that she held it against him, she thought as she parked. She liked the company of men. She liked sex. Sometimes one led to the other.

Besides, how could you find the love of your life if you didn't look for him?

She turned off the car, bit her lip, then turned the key again. It made very unhappy noises, seemed undecided, then fired.

That had to be a good sign, she decided, then switched it off again. But she'd take it into the shop as soon as she could. She'd have to ask Parker about mechanics, as Parker knew everything. Inside the house, she got herself a bottle of water to take upstairs. Thanks to Sam and the stupid battery she wouldn't make it to bed by the righteous hour of eleven, but she could get there by midnight. Which meant she had no excuse to miss the early workout she'd planned for the morning. No excuse, she lectured herself.

She set the water on her bedside table by a little vase of freesia and started to undress. Then realized she was still wearing Jack's jacket.

"Oh, damn it."

It smelled so good, she thought. Leather and Jack. And that wasn't a scent that was going to give her quiet dreams. She carried it across the room, laid it over the back of a chair. Now she had to get it back to him, but she'd worry about that later.

One of the girls might be going into town for something and could drop it off. It wasn't cowardly to pass the task off. It was efficient.

Cowardice had nothing to do with it. She saw Jack all the time. All the time. She just didn't see the point in making a special trip if someone else was already going. Surely he had another jacket. It wasn't like he needed that particular one immediately. If it was so important, why hadn't he taken it back?

It was his own fault.

And hadn't she said she'd worry about it later?

She changed into a nightshirt then went into the bathroom to begin her nightly ritual. Makeup off, skin toned and moisturized, teeth and hair brushed. The routine and her pretty bathroom usually relaxed her. She loved the happy colors, her sweet slipper tub, the shelf of pale green bottles that held whatever flowers she had handy.

Miniature daffodils now, to celebrate spring. But their cheerful faces seemed to smirk at her. Irritated, she flipped off the light.

She continued the ritual by removing the small mountain of throw pillows from the bed, setting aside the embroidered shams, fluffing up her sleep pillows. She slid under the duvet, snuggled in to enjoy the feel of smooth, soft sheets against her skin, the dreamy scent of freesia perfuming the air, and . . . Shit! She could still smell his jacket.

Sighing, she flopped over on her back.

So what? So what if she had lusty thoughts about her best friend's brother's best friend? It wasn't a crime. Lusty thoughts were absolutely reasonable and normal. In fact, lusty thoughts were good things. Healthy things. She liked having lusty thoughts.

Why wouldn't a normal woman have lusty thoughts about a sexy, gorgeous man with a great body and eyes that were like smoke wrapped up in fog?

She'd be crazy not to have them.

Acting on them, now that would be crazy. But she was perfectly entitled to have them. She wondered what he'd have done if she'd moved in that last inch under the hood of the car and planted one on him?

Being a man, he'd have moved in right back, she imagined. And they'd have spent a very interesting few minutes smolder ing on the side of the road in the lightly falling snow. Bodies heating, hearts pounding with the snow showering over them and . . .

No, no, she was romanticizing it. Why did she always do that, always move from healthy lust to romance? That was her problem, and certainly rooted in the wonderfully romantic love story of her parents. How could she not want what