Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Moira couldn’t help but be impressed as Welker showed her around. His kitchen was…spectacular, and she itched to open cabinets and get her fingers onto some pots and pans, but…

A huge yawn escaped her.

“Damn. You’re exhausted,” Welker stated. “I totally get it. I am, too. It’s been a long, freaking night,” he commiserated. “What do you say I give you the rest of the tour tomorrow, but right now, we get you to bed.”

If Moira weren’t so tired, she’d wonder about his wording, but all she could do was nod and yawn. Everything was finally crashing down on her, and she felt like she could sleep for three days.

“This way,” he said, leading her to a free-floating staircase that led to an upper, open balcony. Off that long expanse, were three doors she could see from down below. “My room is on the far end,” Welk pointed left as he headed up the stairs. “The middle door is kind of a catch-all office, and the door to the right is the guest room where you’ll be staying. Like I said, both bedrooms have attached baths, so we don’t have to share,” he informed her, “but I wasn’t expecting company, so I’m sorry, the bed isn’t made up.”

“Not a problem. All I need is a sleeping bag,” she demurred drowsily. At this point, if the accommodations were a bed of nails, she’d be a-okay.

Welker chuckled, and Moira liked the sound. Her brain was half asleep, and that had to be the only reason—she told herself—that it was charming, rather than annoying this time.

“I think we can do better than a camp-out.”

It was a good thing Welker didn’t know where her brain had gone as he continued.

“I learned how to make up a bunk while I was in the military, so it won’t take me but a couple minutes to tuck things in.”

Moira followed him onto the landing, and into the room he’d designated. The place was…incomplete, as he’d said. The walls were framed out, with rough electrical installed, but insulation hadn’t gone in yet on the outer walls, so there was no sheetrock hung; only untaped sheets between rooms. There was, however, a roof over their heads and a nice, king-sized bed smack dab in the middle of the space, so Moira wasn’t complaining.

“Linens are in here,” Welk told her, going to a doorless closet. “That includes towels and facecloths for the bathroom.”

Mmm. A shower sounded nice, but Moira didn’t think she’d have the strength not to fall asleep in the stall. And the last thing she needed was Welker coming to her naked rescue. She’d wait until she got up.

Welker turned to her with an arm full of bedding.

“I’ll help,” Moira managed, and together, even with her half asleep, they handled the sheets like they’d been doing it their entire lives.

“There.” Welker stood back and admired their handiwork. “I, uh, guess I’ll leave you alone now.” His hands thrust deep into his pockets and he looked…nervous.

“I’ll be fine, Vestore,” Moira told him, purposely using his last name again as she tended to do when her imagination where he was concerned started getting away from her. “No nightmares. I promise.”

She hoped she could follow through with that declaration. There was no doubt she’d relive some of those moments on the roof as she searched for forty-winks.

“Okay.” He shrugged. “If you need me…”

“I know where to find you,” she replied.

“Right. And don’t worry about your safety. The property might still be a work in progress, but I have security measures in place.”

Moira wanted to ponder that; why Welk would install surveillance before his place was even finished, but she was too tired to think about it, so she simply agreed. “Got it.” She gestured to the door. “I’ll see you in four or five hours.” She figured that’s all she’d sleep with morning already breaking. The light coming in through the unshaded windows would make that a certainty.

“Okay. Don’t rush. Mason texted and said the team would meet at your house for clean-up at three this afternoon. That’s ten hours from now.”

Moira yawned again, sure that her back teeth were visible because her jaw had opened so wide. “Great. I’m ready to crash now, Welk,” she slurred.

“Going,” he said, and backed out the door. “Good night, Moira.” He closed the portal gently behind him and Moira snickered.

Night had long-since passed.

Moira stretched on the comfortable mattress.

Damn. Welker had sprung for a sweet bed, unlike hers at home, which had come from a major discount warehouse and was now slit from top to bottom, thanks to the fucking MC. The puffy-perfection she’d slept on, sure had put her out for the duration…or perhaps that had been her overtiredness. Whichever. She could sure get used to this lap of luxury. Maybe she’d buy a new mattress that cost a little more next time…

Moira turned over and buried her nose in the soft sheets, loving the smell of Welker’s laundry detergent. She’d caught whiffs of it on his clothes before, and it made her feel like, if she opened her eyes, he’d be right next to…

Moira blinked her orbs open.

Whew. No Welker.

At least she hadn’t been so tired that she’d somehow, inadvertently welcomed the man into her bed. That would have been…interesting? Welker was definitely sexy as hell, and he’d been so nice to her with all the shit that had happened. But even if she did want to invite him into her bed…which she definitely didn’t…them being teammates would put the nix on that. Moira couldn’t imagine getting naked with the man, then watch him move on to his next conquest while she continued fantasizing about his fine ass.

His fine ass…

Right. She’d tried hard not to, but she’d definitely noticed his pretty glutes…all round and muscular. A far cry from Jory’s boyish, slender cheeks when they’d long-ago hooked up. She’d also witnessed Welker in beast-mode on the mats when they trained. His abs, pecs, quads, bis and tris were all outstanding.

But… So what? Right ?

Moira stretched again, and caught sight of her watch.

Shit!

She bolted upright.

How the hell had she slept for eight hours? When was the last time that had happened? Moira was generally a six-hour snoozer without exception.

She collapsed back onto the mattress for a moment, confused. Why…? It had to be the smell. Welker’s smell. It made her feel…safe.

Huffing at herself, Moira threw back the covers and swung her legs out of bed. Her naked legs. Yup. She remembered thinking last night that there was no way she was going to soil clean sheets with the dirty sweats she’d been wearing during her roof-top foray. And she hadn’t had the guts to go after Welker once he’d left the room to request more sweats, or the clothes he said might have on site, so she’d stripped down and slept without.

Moira had to admit, it was a nice feeling; reclining nude. It was probably the Egyptian cotton sheets; a luxury she hadn’t afforded herself since she’d left her father’s house.

Spying a pile of clothing that hadn’t been in the room the night before, Moira grinned. Welker must have snuck in while she was asleep, and left them. Another first, not waking up when someone breached her space.

Moira walked over to the chair upon which the clothes sat, and picked them up. Not sweats, she grunted. Tight-ass, work-out clothes. Stretchy material, in black. There was a fitted, long sleeve shirt, and…leggings? When the hell had she ever worn leggings?

Never.

But what choice did she have? The clothing she’d tossed onto the floor before getting into bed, was MIA.

Fucking Vestore . He’d taken them to clean, obviously. Sweet, but completely unnecessary.

Moira disgruntledly picked up the stack, which included some very tiny but stretchy undergarments, and stomped with them into the bathroom. Her irritation dissipated a tiny bit when she saw a toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as two small bottles holding shampoo and conditioner. Welker had clearly gone out while she’d snoozed the day away, and purchased the items.

Moira grumbled. Damn the man for being both cheeky—giving her clothes he knew she’d never wear in a million years—and sweet, by making sure she had toiletries.

Well, he was going to fish-his-wish and get an eyeful, that was for sure. With no other choice, these tight-ass puppies were going on. The curves she’d never revealed to pretty much anybody would be on full display with that freaking outfit.

Moira turned the water on in the shower, thinking to warm it up as she brushed her teeth, but was pleasantly surprised when it instantly emerged hot. The perks just kept coming. The puzzle-of-a-man must have one of those instant hot water thingies, which had her daydreaming that if she stood under the spray for an hour, it wouldn’t get cold.

Awesome.

But just her luck, taking her time today wasn’t in the cards. They had to get back to her place to help with clean-up.

Moira finished brushing her teeth and stepped under the spray, thinking ahead. When she went to her house, she’d have to see if any of her clothes or personal belongings were salvageable, then she had to plan for where to stay until she was safe. Maybe, since the MC had done a number on her abode, they’d leave her alone from now on…

Not likely. The president had spit nails over his incarceration, threatened retribution, and that’s exactly what she’d get until the rogue group was completely declawed.

Stepping from the shower, Moira toweled off and looked for a hair dryer. Finding none, she contemplated braiding her hair, wet, which would mean that the thick column would still be damp when she went to bed tonight.

She bit her lip. She could always leave it loose to dry.

Loose it is.

She finger-combed her hair into a semblance of order, and whisps began to curl already, but there was nothing she could do about it.

She grunted down at the clothes that sat on the closed toilet seat.

In for a penny…

Quickly, before she changed her mind, Moira pulled on the undergarments, then the two pieces of athletic clothing—both of which molded to her body like a lover’s hands—before turning to the full-length mirror tacked up on the back of the bathroom door to have a peek at the damage.

She sighed.

Her boobs were too big, her hips, wide, but there was no denying that she had a flat stomach from working out, as well as a tight ass and thighs. All in all, it wasn’t a bad body, she simply wasn’t used to seeing it all…showcased.

Finding no socks, she padded back into the bedroom and looked under the chair. Nope . None provided. Well, barefoot wouldn’t be the worst of what Welker would see. She drew in a deep breath. It was now or never. She paused in front of the door. She could do this.

Moira tiptoed out into the hallway, her nose twitching at the smell of coffee. Cocking an ear for noise, she heard…singing?

Welker was clearly in the kitchen, crooning loudly, victimizing Beyoncé’s Texas Hold ‘Em , which Moira knew for sure didn’t have three different keys.

She snorted. If Welker could expose that hidden side of himself, Moira could do a big reveal, as well.

Steeling herself, she walked downstairs and made her way to the kitchen doorway.

“ So lay your cards, down, down ?—”

Moira cleared her throat.

Welker spun toward her, dropping the egg he was just about to crack onto the floor where it splattered, dead.

“Moir—” He cut himself off again, but this time, he looked her slowly up and down, his mouth open and his eyes wide. “Shit. The clothes…” He coughed as if to regroup. “They, uh, fit.”

“Barely,” Moira grunted. “Not my normal thing.”

“They look…you look…” His gaze went to her hair. “Blonde.”

Had she somehow fuddled the man’s brains? Her hair, as always, was mousy brown. “Nope. Brown,” she corrected.

“With gold and blonde and platinum…” he trailed off.

Moira shrugged. Technically, she guessed he was right. She did have all those weird highlights that were fairly undetectable when she wrapped the whole mess up tightly.

“It’s hair, Welker,” she corrected, dismissing his silliness. She took a few steps toward the coffee machine. “May I...?”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” he spluttered. “I was just making eggs,” he added, unnecessarily. He fidgeted, then looked down at her legs again, and another choking noise emerged from his mouth. “You…paint your toes? Pink?”

Moira frowned. It was the one girlie thing she did for herself, knowing nobody would ever see, because she didn’t do public barefooted-ness.

Leave it to Welker to call her on it.

“Sometimes red,” she corrected sourly.

“I…like it,” Welker swallowed so that his Adam’s Apple bobbed.

It occurred to Moira that the man might be confused and tongue-tied because the stuff he was seeing didn’t add up to the sheriff he knew. But still, even having been blindsided, he wasn’t holding back in his appreciation.

“Uh, thanks?” Moira rejoindered, heading for the coffee machine and pouring the life-giving black liquid into a large mug that was waiting. She breathed it in, deeply, barely able to hold back a groan before she turned back to Welker, catching him staring at her ass. She chose to ignore his perusal. It was typical male behavior, Moira told herself, and had nothing to do with her in specific.

“You going to clean up that egg?” she asked.

“Oh. Oh! Yeah. I am.” He turned and fumbled with some paper towels on the counter, bringing the roll to the floor with him before tearing off a large strip as he hit his knees and sopped things around.

“It’s an egg, Vestore,” she told him, holding in her amusement. “You need a cleaning fluid to get the slime up.”

He held the eggy towel aloft, dripping goo, and Moira almost chuckled. The man looked…addled.

“Here. Let me,” she offered, putting him out of his misery. She placed her coffee on the dividing bar, went directly to the cabinet below his kitchen sink, opened the door and immediately found a lemon cleaner that would cut the sludge. She also extracted the small trash bin, walking it over to him where she urged him silently to deposit his spent towel inside.

Once he complied, she dropped to her haunches beside him, squirted the floor, extracted far fewer towels than he had, and handily took care of the mess.

“See? Easy,” she said, blinking over at him, realizing with a shiver that their heads had somehow moved so they were less than a foot apart, and was that…interest in his nearly black irises?

No. She had to be reading things wrong. There was no way Welker…

At that moment, his eyes dropped to her mouth, and he moved an almost imperceptible inch toward her.

Moira’s tongue inadvertently came out and touched her lower lip.

The pulse in Welker’s neck went nuts, and her own heartbeat sped up.

Would he …?

Could this …?

The doorbell rang and they both jumped, Welker’s elbow struck her in the chest, her hand grabbed onto his hard thigh so she wouldn’t fall backward.

“I’m sorry,” he yelped at the same time she spouted, “Shit!”

But seeing the look of absolute horror on the normally confident man’s face, Moira lost it.

She cracked up, her laughter ringing out loudly, filling the kitchen and reverberating off the walls.

Welker looked shocked.

“Wow.” He stared at her in a way she’d never seen before. “You’re laughing…”

She managed, between chortles, to calm herself down enough to speak. “Welk, I?—”

The doorbell rang again, and Moira giggled. Actually giggled.

Well shit .

She crossed her eyes. Apparently, her coat of steel had dropped, and she’d have a hard time stuffing her armored-identity back in. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing, but…

“Welk? I, uh, think you ought to get the door.”