Chapter 9

Hazel was on top of him.

Wakefulness hit Maverick, pulling him out of the half-conscious state he'd been in while resting with her on the sofa after she'd fallen asleep. To make her more comfortable, he'd reclined and situated her at his side with her head on his chest.

He'd only planned to close his eyes for a short while—hadn't intended to fall asleep. In fact, he'd debated on whether he oughta get up and carry her to the loft. But it'd been so nice having her right there by his side that, truth be told, he'd been selfish and stayed because he wasn't ready to be away from her.

Now, somehow she'd shifted positions, and every single perfect inch of her perfect body was pressing into his. He could get used to waking up to this every day.

His lips curved up into a grin. "Hey there."

Her face hovered above him, her nose brushing his. "Maverick," she hissed his name. "You can't hold me like this. It isn't decent."

He became conscious of his arms surrounding her, his hands on her back—one awfully low but thankfully not low enough that he'd deserve a good walloping for crossing a line.

She was right. Having her on top of him wasn't decent either. As much as he liked holding her, he had no right to hug her or even rest with her on the sofa. He shouldn't have lain down with her, should have guessed he wouldn't have the willpower to resist her—not with the way his thoughts had been circling back to her every chance they had.

All last night after the foaling, his mind had been filled with her face as she'd watched the birthing with amazement, joy, and confidence. All day as he'd herded the cattle with his men, he'd thought of little else except for her, hoping she wasn't working too hard but knowing she was.

"Maverick, wake up." She wasn't making an effort to get off him, wasn't wiggling or pushing or even trying to roll away. Maybe she liked being close to him too.

"I'm awake, angel." He'd decided on calling her angel. It seemed to fit her, and he liked it a whole lot better than darlin'.

"I should get to bed." Her whisper wasn't all that demanding. Was there even reluctance in her voice? "Before you soil my reputation."

"Since I'm soiling your reputation, I reckon we oughta just get married. What do you think?" His tone was laced with teasing, but as soon as the question was out, all humor left him. What was he saying? He wasn't really suggesting marriage, was he?

Or what if he was?

The question must have startled her too, because she grew silent and still. She lay on him only a moment longer before pushing up.

Even though he didn't want to release her, he let his arms fall away.

She climbed up until she was standing beside the sofa.

He didn't move from his spot. Instead, he crossed one arm behind his head and watched her as she fidgeted first to straighten her blouse and then her skirt—both of which she'd borrowed from Clementine or Clarabelle.

What was she thinking? How did she feel about him? About them? Maybe he didn't have any right to ask her, but he sure wanted to.

She hesitated a moment, then turned to go.

Before she could take a step away, he reached out and caught her hand. He didn't know what he was doing, didn't know what he wanted from her or even from himself. All he knew was that he couldn't let her walk away yet.

He pushed himself up and then stood, still holding her hand.

She was looking at the embers and nibbling at her bottom lip. If the room had been well lit, he guessed it would have shown flushed cheeks too. With her hair having come loose from her braid, wisps floated around her face and neck.

Heaven almighty, she was beautiful. She was so beautiful his chest began to ache just watching her. It ached with something he couldn't explain, except that he suddenly and fiercely wanted Hazel to be his.

"Hey," he whispered, unable to keep himself from reaching his other hand up and tucking one of her strands behind her ear.

She turned her eyes upon him. In the darkness he couldn't see the play of emotion there. But he could sense something, an interest in him, maybe even desire.

Without giving himself a chance to second-guess his actions, he dipped down and touched his lips to hers. He waited just a fraction, giving her permission to back away and end the kiss if it wasn't what she wanted.

But she didn't move. Instead, she waited, almost breathlessly. Was this her first kiss?

A swell of yearning rose inside him, and he pressed in more completely. As he did so, he was unprepared for the softness and warmth of her lips. And he was unprepared for her response. She lifted on her toes and met him with a sweet fervor that somehow seemed to set his blood on fire. Their meshing contained such a soft and delectable rhythm that he felt the tug of it keenly, all the way to his heart and soul.

He started to draw her closer, wanted to wrap her up in his arms, but before he could find his way out of the oblivion that her kiss had taken him to, she broke away. She backed up several steps, paused. Then she turned and raced up the stairs that led to the loft.

A moment later, the soft squeak of the bed told him that she'd lain down. Although she was quiet, he could still hear her rapid breathing and knew she'd been just as affected by their kiss.

Affectedwasn't the right word for how it had impacted him. He could only stand beside the sofa, his entire world flipped upside down. His muscles were tense with need, his blood hot with possessiveness, his pulse thudding with her name.

Hazel. His woman. His and only his. For always.

He loved her. Heaven almighty he loved her, more than anyone or anything.

He almost groaned aloud with the pressure of that love inside his chest.

How had this happened so quick-like? Or what if it wasn't quick? What if it had been happening for years but he'd been too scared to admit it?

After the pact he'd made with Sterling about never liking each other's sisters, he reckoned he'd been left with little choice but to stuff away every last feeling for Hazel that might have been there to begin with.

If he was completely honest with himself, maybe he'd allowed himself to flirt like crazy with most women to distract himself from thinking about Hazel. Maybe he'd needed to keep his feelings locked away even from himself so that he wouldn't dwell on her and how much he liked her.

Whatever the case, the kiss—or something—had unleashed the feelings, and now they were flooding him with an overwhelming need to be with her. His muscles tightened with the longing to chase after her, pull her into his arms, and confess to her that he loved her.

In fact, the need to do so almost pained him.

But he couldn't go up into the loft. He didn't trust himself—not now that his bottled emotions for her were unleashed.

Instead, he lowered himself back to the sofa and perched on the edge. With his elbows on his knees, he buried his face into his hands. What was he gonna do now? There was no way he could go back to being just friends with her. But he couldn't move beyond friendship until he talked with Sterling and told him he wanted to end their no-sister pact.

But talking with Sterling at this point was about as impossible as going to the moon.

Or was it?

He sat up. Sterling thought he'd been interested in Violet. If he went to Sterling and told him how he felt about Hazel—that he was crazy about her, loved her more than anything and wanted to marry her—what would Sterling say?

Maybe it would work to smooth things over between them. He'd be able to prove he had no feelings toward Violet and never had, that he wasn't interested in stealing her away, that the only woman he wanted was Hazel.

Maverick drew in a deep breath. Yep. Tomorrow he'd take Hazel home, and while he was at the Noble Ranch, he'd corner Sterling. He'd apologize for everything that had happened at the failed wedding and his role in it. Then he'd tell Sterling how he felt about Hazel.

After that, he'd come up with a grand way to show Hazel how he was feeling. Even if she didn't love him quite yet, he'd sensed something there. He'd do his best to woo and win her over so that, soon enough, she'd love him back.