The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

“Morning,” he called, and she nearly dropped a skillet in fright. She carefully placed it on the stove top and stared up at him in admonition.

“You scared me,” she chastised.

“You knew I was up here,” he pointed out.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m not.”

“Maybe you should get dressed,” she suggested, her face bright red as she kept her eyes determinedly above his waist. Sam snorted, only now registering his nudity and the fact that his erection had found renewed vigor in her presence.

“You know I need help dressing,” he said, injecting a fair amount of misery into his voice. Her eyes flickered with sympathy for a moment before they narrowed and the concern in her pretty face transformed into a full-on glare.

“You were wearing boxer briefs when I left last night,” she reminded. “You managed to get out of them without a problem. You can get into them with equal ease, I’m sure.”

Busted.

“You’re a heartless woman, Dahlia McGregor,” he said on a dejected sigh before turning around. He grinned at the sound of her gasp, hoping she enjoyed the cheeky eyeful of ass he’d so considerately gifted her with.

“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes,” she called.

Lia ran a shaky hand over her face and muffled a groan behind her fingers. This was probably the most ill-advised thing she’d ever done in her life. Why did she think she could handle this? Sam Brand was too good-looking, too sexy, and too darned arrogant and self-assured by far, and Lia had been an idiot for thinking she could handle him.

She took a moment to compose herself before sucking in a bracing breath.

“Woman up, Lia. You can handle two weeks. The man is as weak as a puppy, for goodness’ sake. Get over this.” Ineffectual and unconvincing pep talk over, she shook herself and went back to work.

She had everything prepared when she heard Brand’s footsteps coming down the stairs. She threw back her shoulders and turned to face him with a bright smile, which immediately faltered when she noted first his naked chest, then his scowl, and finally the scrap of fabric he had clutched in his left hand.

“Trouble?” He didn’t bother answering her, merely shoved his left hand in her direction. It was clutching a cotton shirt. She took the shirt gingerly and shook it out to assess it. The left sleeve was inside out, as if he’d had his arm in it and then pulled it back out without much care. The right sleeve was cut down the seam to allow the cast to slide in with ease. But clearly, Brand hadn’t found it very easy, if his lethal glower was anything to go by.

Lia didn’t say anything. She dragged the left sleeve the right side out and shook the shirt vigorously to get rid of the creases.

“Hold out your left arm,” she instructed, keeping her voice crisp and businesslike. He obeyed sullenly and she slid the sleeve up before focusing on the other arm. She made short work of that, too, and soon found herself standing in front of him, way too close for comfort, while she buttoned the shirt. She was so aware of his closeness, his heat, and the wonderful, masculine smell of his cologne that she couldn’t control the shaking of her fingers and she botched the job. He said nothing when she had to start over, just stood quietly, his breath ruffling the hair at her temple. The tips of her fingers inadvertently brushed against the silky skin of his chest and he shuddered, his breath escaping on a slightly muffled groan.

“Sorry,” she murmured, her voice quivering. She tried to take more care not to touch him, but she was swiftly turning into a wreck, her hands shaking almost uncontrollably now. She paused and let her hands fall to her sides, where she clenched them into fists to regain some semblance of control, before she attempted the task again.

She was on the last button and nearly jumped out of her skin when he reached out and brushed his fingertips against her cheek.

“You have flour on your face,” he explained, his voice ridiculously gravelly.

Lia left the top two buttons unfastened and stepped away from his heat, patting at her hectically flushed cheeks in what she hoped looked like an attempt to dust any residual flour from her face. Rather than what it truly was—a really flustered move to cool down and gather her composure.

After a moment of frantic confusion, she finally took a long look at him before frowning.

“Well, this is completely impractical,” she noted. The split shirtsleeve hung uselessly from his shoulder. “Whose bright idea was this?”

“My mother altered some of my clothing to help me acclimate to my infirmity,” he said. Lia immediately felt bad for her harsh observation—and an overwhelming curiosity about his mother.