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Her gaze shot back to the bed.
Okay, so she wanted to rumple him and rumple him thoroughly. More than once. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?
She swallowed.
She had to quit this fantasy stuff. Blake was here to help her. If their near proximity helped him see her as a female, then so be it—but she didn’t plan to throw herself at him. Either Blake wanted a relationship with her or he didn’t.
Her gaze fell on the bed again.
“The bed’s plenty big for the both of us. We’ll share.” She narrowed her eyes to what she hoped were menacing slits. “You stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine.”
“Dibs on the top side.”
“Fine, you can have that top side, and I’ll take this top side.” She pointed to the side of the bed closest to the bathroom for herself.
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant.” He laughed, watching her lift the comforter and spray disinfectant between the sheets and on the underside of the comforter. “You’re the only person I know who disinfects hotel room beds.”
Darby shrugged. She wasn’t exactly a germ-a-phobe. But she’d seen one too many television specials about what crawled around in hotel room beds not to come prepared, and she always brought her own pillow.
“Here.” She tossed the spray bottle to him. “You’re a big boy. Disinfect your own side.”
Catching the bottle, he grinned. She turned to unpacking her clothes. Holding her breath, she pulled a black lacy number from her suitcase and dropped it into the drawer she’d also disinfected.
She glanced up in time to see Blake’s gaze following her movements as she dropped another pair of tiny panties into the drawer.
His feet shifted. He swallowed. He tugged on the collar of his polo shirt.
When his gaze met hers, Darby had no doubts.
If this weekend accomplished nothing else, Blake had just realized she was a woman.
A woman who had a predilection for fancy undergarments.
In that moment, Blake wanted her.
She’d wanted him always.
Now what? Could her fantasies become realities, or would her hopes only lead to disaster?
Still fighting his reaction to the skimpy silk scraps Darby had pulled from her suitcase, Blake hung his clothes in the hotel room’s tiny closet.
All these years he’d never known she had a penchant for sexy lingerie.
But why would he have known? They didn’t have that type of relationship. Not one where they discussed boxers or briefs, granny whites or spidery webs of black silk. They were business partners—and he’d be a wise man to remember that instead of wondering how that tangled lace would look hugging her bottom.
The sound of something falling to the bathroom floor was followed by Darby mumbling something he couldn’t make out through the closed door.
Pausing at the closet, he eyed his suit, hanging side-by-side next to Darby’s brilliant blue dress. He reached out, ran his fingertips over the soft material of her dress.
Maybe he should pretend to sleep in the chair.
Pretend because even if the curved wooden chair that was designed more for looks than comfort was the most comfortable chair in the world there was no way he’d rest with Darby sleeping in the same room.
He hadn’t thought doing this favor would be a big deal, but he’d never spent the weekend in a hotel with a beautiful woman he wasn’t having sex with.
He sure hadn’t ever slept in a bed with a woman he wasn’t having sex with.
Especially when he wanted to be having sex with that woman.
But sex with Darby could never be just sex.
She was his business partner, his friend, someone he cared about.
All reasons why sex wasn’t a good idea.
As much as he wanted to see Darby in those tiny bits of silk, sex between them would ruin everything. Darby didn’t do casual sex, and Blake didn’t do anything but.
The bathroom door opened. Blake faced the woman he’d just been imagining in her underwear. Again. Trapped steam from her recent shower kissed his skin—or maybe that was sweat from his thoughts of what she had on underneath her clothes. She’d changed into a pair of white shorts that showed off her toned legs and a trendy top that showcased her full breasts and made her waist look tiny. Dampness clung to the hair at the base of her neck. The rest of her blonde hair was clipped by a toothed hairpiece that could double as a torture device.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Her eyes didn’t meet his. “Don’t wait up.”
Which of those silk numbers did she wear beneath her clothes?
He swallowed, trying to dislodge the brick stuck in his throat. Granny panties, Blake. She’s wearing big, ugly granny panties. Just keep telling yourself that and eventually you’ll forget what you saw, what you want to see wrapped around Darby’s curvy body.
“Blake?” Her forehead wrinkled with concern. “You okay?”
Okay? No, he wasn’t okay. His imagination was working overtime. What she’d said registered in his lingerie intoxicated mind.
“If you’re going out, I’m going with you.” Wherever she was going, she wasn’t leaving him in the hotel room. With her underwear and his over-active imagination. Hell, no.
“No.” Her tone held full Darby bossiness. “You’re not.”
“If you think I’m sitting in a hotel room alone while you go out, think again.” He closed the closet door, for once not appreciating her bossy attitude. “Where are you going anyway?”
“To my parents’, and you’re not going. End of discussion. ”
Her parents? Of course. Darby’s family lived here. Just because his mother made moving house a hobby that didn’t mean normal families changed addresses on an annual rotation. Why hadn’t he considered that she’d want to visit while in Armadillo Lake?
“I’m coming with you,” he said matter-of-factly, knowing he’d win this argument, “and you should be grateful.”
Bingo. She lifted confused eyes to his. “Huh?”
He gave a smug smile. “How will it look if the man who is madly in love with you doesn’t go to meet your parents? Tsk, tsk, Darby,” he scolded, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who said you wanted this to appear real. Twiddling my thumbs in our hotel room while you visit with the family doesn’t work.”
He watched the unhappy realization that he was right wash over her heart-shaped face, watched as she searched for a feasible argument, summarily dismissing each one.
“I don’t want you to go.” She dropped onto the bed in an unladylike flounce that had visions of skimpy underwear flashing in his brain again. “My parents don’t know you’re with me. But they do know I’m here.” Her voice had taken on an unfamiliar whiny tone. “I have to go, but you can’t go with me.”
“Did you plan to hide me away in the hotel while you snuck in the obligatory visit with the family?” The guilt on her face said that was exactly what she’d intended. “I’m an easygoing guy, Darby, you know that. But I’m not doing room service while you go to your parents.” He frowned. “We’ve been partners for almost a year and I’ve never met your family. Why is that?”
She’d met his mother on the rare occasions Cecelia had dropped by Knoxville for a visit. But he hadn’t met a single person from Darby’s pre-Knoxville life. Not even at the grand opening of their clinic.
“Fine. You can come.” She stood, eyed him as if she’d rather kiss a sewer rat than introduce him to her family. “But just remember you insisted upon going and that I was going to spare you the drama.” Then her eyes took on a delighted spark. “Oh, and by the way, City Boy, there are chicken barns. Four of them. Hope you’re real hungry for some of my momma’s chicken and dumplings. Mmm, chicken.”
Darby winced. No, her mother hadn’t really just pulled up her shirt to ask Blake’s opinion on the “bug bites” on her abdomen. Not at the dining room table. Not with the entire family present. Not while they were eating dinner.
Yep, Nellie Phillips had.
To his credit, Blake was taking her family—all twenty-two of them present and accounted for, and sitting at various places throughout the farmhouse—in his stride. Actually, he seemed amused by the chaos that was a permanent fixture at the Phillips home.
Standing there with her floral print shirt pulled up, her mother revealed a tiny sliver of thick white cotton and a wide expanse of pale white skin, marred only by the bright red vesicles clustered over her lower ribcage and wrapping around her trunk on her left side.
Concern replacing her mortification, Darby squinted at the “bug bites”. “Are you sure something bit you?”
Blake examined the rash. “Looks more like Herpes Zoster.”
Darby agreed. Those angry clusters were isolated to a single dermatome, and hadn’t been caused by an insect.
“Herpes Zoster? Is that serious?” one of her brothers asked, leaning toward his mother for a closer look. “See, Mom, I told you to let me drive you into Pea Ridge to be checked.”
Nellie gave Jim a silencing look. “Don’t be silly. Herpes Zoster is a fancy term for shingles.”
“Shingles?” Darby’s dad spoke up from where he sat in his honored spot at the head of the table. He lowered his glass of iced tea and scratched his graying head. “Earl Johnson from down the road—you remember him, Darby? You used to clean house for him? He had shingles early in the spring. Had me kill my rooster for him.”
Knowing Blake didn’t want to hear about old wives’ tale remedies for certain ailments, Darby scooted her chair closer to the table and reached for the bowl of fried potatoes. “Mom, how long have you had the rash? Are you taking anything to help dry it up?”
“Tell Darby about those spells you’ve been having.”
Darby’s gaze cut from her mother to her oldest brother and back again. “What spells?”
Her mother waved her hand. “No big deal. Just a few twinges of pain. I thought from the bug bites.”
Concern sparked in Darby’s chest. “What kind of pain? Haven’t you been feeling well?”
“I’m fine. Fit as a fiddle.” Darby’s mother didn’t meet her eyes, but instead passed a bowl full of greens to Blake. “I remember my mother having shingles. She had a lot of pain even after the rash disappeared, complained with her side hurting for months.”
“Pain is normal with shingles.” Blake accepted the bowl, staring at the contents with speculative eyes. He tentatively dipped out a small spoonful. “You should schedule an appointment with your doctor to get on an anti-viral and some pain medication.”
“I don’t like pills. Never have.” Nellie smiled at Blake. “I’m like my mother that way.”
Darby’s niece came running into the kitchen, squealing that her brother had spilled his juice. Rosy jumped up to check on the spill, but Nellie placed her hand on her daughter-in-law’s arm. “Let me.”
Darby followed her mother into the living room and helped clean the juice puddle.
Watching her mother, Darby noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes. Dark circles she hadn’t really noticed—probably because she’d been so distracted with worrying about Blake and his reaction to her family, worrying about her family’s reaction to Blake. She also noticed the fatigue plaguing her mother’s face, the deepening wrinkles, the slight tremble to her hand when she wiped the towel across the floor.
Her mother had shingles. Not the end of the world, but how long had she been suffering, ignoring the pain? Why hadn’t she let Jim drive her to Pea Ridge to be checked? Why hadn’t she mentioned the rash to Darby when they’d talked on the phone earlier in the week? Even if her mother didn’t understand why she’d become a doctor, why she’d had to get away from Armadillo Lake, she knew she was a darn good one.
When they’d wiped up the last of the juice from the scuffed hardwood floor, Darby met her mother’s gaze and felt as if she was five years old.
“Mom,” she began, before they stepped back into the kitchen, “you didn’t have to ask Blake about your rash. I would have checked it for you.”
“Nonsense.” Re-entering the kitchen, her mother waved her hand. “He’s a real doctor.” She shot an admiring glance toward where Blake sat talking with Darby’s father. “No sense in you having to worry yourself over some little rash.”
A real doctor. What was she? A pretend one?
Darby sighed.
Might as well be, since she was faking everything else this weekend.
Blake didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to see that Darby was irritated with most of her family.
As the youngest of five children, and the only girl, her family treated her as if she were incapable of doing anything for herself. At each point Darby attempted to do something, even if it was only to refill her glass of tea, someone jumped in and did the task for her. Couldn’t they see what a talented young woman she’d grown into? How much their attitude annoyed her?
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