Swept Away (Wildfire Lake #3) - Skye Jordan Page 0,34

nice to me.”

Well, shit. I can’t burst her bubble right now, but I may be able to get information.

“Have you seen the guy speaking at the retreat?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Piper says. “Bodhi. He’s nice.”

“Stay away from him,” I tell her. “He’s bad news.”

She rolls her eyes. “You think everyone is bad news.”

“He’s Chloe’s ex, and he hurt her badly.”

That makes Piper pause. “Really?”

“Yeah. If you see him doing anything hinky, you let me know. There’s nothing I’d like to do more than put him in jail for the night.”

“Did you just say hinky?” She puts up both hands. “Never mind. Just don’t ever say that word in my presence again.”

“Hey,” I say, “about Chloe and me—”

But Piper’s already on her way back to the patio, calling, “Don’t mess it up, Uncle Z,” before she turns and jogs to the market and disappears inside.

“Man, telling her the truth is going to suck so hard,” I mutter under my breath as I head toward Chloe’s boat again. I can already hear Piper bitching at me for coming down on her for every little white lie, only to perpetuate my own huge lie.

Then again, if I can convince Chloe to take a real chance on me, there will be no lie to address.

When I reach Chloe’s door, I find it wide open, and even though it’s a perfect night to have the breeze flowing through enclosed spaces, I’m both irritated and uneasy. I’ve got myself convinced Bodhi’s over here when I swing the screen open and move through the boat. “Chloe?”

I stop in her bedroom doorway to the sight of her in nothing but bra and panties, hand against her chest. “You scared me. What’s wrong?”

My tongue is suddenly two sizes too big for my mouth. Sure, I’ve seen Chloe in a bikini now and then, but somehow, this is different. Her matching bra and panties definitely qualify as lingerie. Pink, lacy, sheer lingerie. No white granny panties for this woman, not that I ever thought that’s what she’d wear, but somehow, I also didn’t expect the soft, feminine, mouthwatering strips of lace barely covering her either.

Blood surges south, and my irritation rises. “What in the fuck are you doing? The door is wide open. Anyone could walk in here.”

“Civilized people knock.” She blows out a long breath. “Jesus, don’t scare me like that.”

“If you think Bodhi would knock, you’re delusional.”

She gives me my second eye roll of the night. “Get out so I can finish getting dressed.”

I should leave. I really should. Instead, I lean my shoulder against the doorjamb between the bedroom and the living room and cross my arms.

“The purple one,” I say.

“What?”

I lift my chin toward the two dresses laid out on the bed. “The dress. Wear the purple one.”

She picks up the purple dress, steps into it, and slides her arms through the straps, then turns away from me. “Since you’re not going to leave, can you zip me up?”

In the two steps it takes to reach her, I’m intoxicated. She collects her long honey-blonde hair into a ponytail and pulls it forward, over her shoulder. She smells exotic, like that incense she sometimes burns in her studio.

I trail a finger up her spine where the zipper would close, right to the base of her neck, where I press a lingering kiss.

“Xavier.” Annoyance edges her voice, but the gooseflesh rising along her neck gives her away. “Are you going to zip or not?”

“I am.” I put a hand at her waist. “But don’t you want to know what I’d do right now if I was really your boyfriend?”

She hesitates. “Definitely not.”

I circle her waist and pull her back against me. “I’d slide my hands under your skirt, drag those pretty panties down your legs—”

“Xavier, zip me. Now.”

“I love your bossy side.”

I zip her dress, then hug her from behind again. The feel of her gives me a head rush. She’s small but strong and no one has ever felt so good in my arms.

“We should practice,” I murmur at her ear. “You know, pretending we’re hot for each other.”

She pulls at my arms and steps away from me. “I’m adding ‘no practicing’ to the rule list.”

“There was no agreement to amend the rules.”

“There is now.”

“That’s not an agreement. That’s a dictatorship.”

“Whatever.” She slides into sandals and picks up a large recycled bag covered in sketches of women in various yoga poses and filled with papers and office supplies. “Let’s go.”

I hold out my hand for hers. This woman