Reeve (The Henchmen MC 11)

But it worked for them.

Because they let each other be themselves.

He wasn't an alpha personality who would try to keep her wild side reined in. She wasn't a needy wife who demanded he leave his important job early to be there to eat dinner with her.

They complemented each other.

Maybe that was why I never found any staying power with the men I had dated; they were too much like me.

Opposites attract and all that jazz.

"Ugh," I growled, tossing myself onto my other side, staring at a dark corner of the room where I knew a French Wingback Bergere chair was located with a pretty blue and white bird pattern on it that was fading too much for my liking. Babcia's work boots were still underneath. A book on herbal remedies was on the seat where I had left it. The moon was peeking in through a gap in the blinds, making it almost look like a figure was sitting there.

I was a solitary woman by nature. I didn't often need a sounding board. But sometimes, like this, late at night when my mind and body were jumbled, I missed having Babcia around. I missed being able to climb into her bed and have a talk no matter the hour. I missed the way she could eviscerate any problem, get to the guts of it, show me the truth buried there.

She had her flighty, earth-child vibe to her like me, but she also had this hardass, confident, certain streak - something my mother got the lion's share of - that I always lacked.

Sometimes you needed someone else to tell you the things you are trying not to acknowledge yourself.

In the stillness of this moment, I heard it.

A car rumbling down the street.

My eyes went to the alarm clock on the nightstand.

Four a.m.

That was about right.

Almost relieved for a reason to get up out of bed, I threw off the blankets, shivering a little into the night air dressed in nothing but my panties and a lightweight tee, always preferring to sleep in as close to nothing as possible.

I leisurely made my way down the stairs, figuring it would take them a minute to rush up and drop whatever poor, unwanted animal they had with them.

The dogs were off sleeping on a bed in the guest room, never wanting to climb in with me because I tossed and turned too much. They must have been out cold not to hear me moving through the house.

My hand reached up and turned the knob as I shoved my feet in a pair of gardening shoes beside the door, the sturdy rubber kind that made your feet sweat but wouldn't let any thorns in and could be rinsed out when they got dirty.

It was going to be a mad mostly-naked dash out there and right back inside.

With a ready-to-run yank, I pulled the door open, nearly slamming into a tall, solid figure standing there with his hand raised to knock.

"Oh," my air whooshed out of me, making me jerk back as my head angled up to see that it wasn't just any tall, solid figure standing there. Oh, no. It was Reeve. With a milk crate tucked under one arm, his jacket draped over the top of it.

"Sorry to..." he started, then trailed off for a second as his eyes slid down, moving over my naked arms, the tee that did nothing to hide the fact that the cold air behind him was breezing in and hardening my nipples, then down over my silly kitten-printed panties, then over my bare legs. Each inch of skin felt instantly heated under the inspection, no matter how short it lasted. And it was short. It was hardly a few seconds before his eyes were on my face again, his brows a little furrowed. "Sorry to wake you, Rey."

"I wasn't sleeping," I admitted, moving back a step, inviting him in out of the cold.

"It's four a.m.," he informed me as he knocked the snow off his boots before moving in.

"I know. I don't sleep well."

"Me either," he confessed. As small as it was, it felt like it was a big deal that he was telling me that, giving me a piece of his puzzle. He watched my face for a long second, long enough for me to wonder if I had pillow creases on my cheek, before he pulled the milk crate out from under his arm. "Found this guy on my way back to the compound."

I moved a step closer, trying not to make it obvious how I was taking a deep breath, trying to breathe him in. As I reached for his jacket, I felt a warm feeling in my belly as I realized it still smelled like my laundry detergent.

"Oh, hey there buddy," I cooed at the little raccoon curled in the corner covering his eyes. "His mama got killed?" I guessed, knowing it was the time of year for abandoned babies. The predator animals were starting to get hungry with food getting more scarce. Cats, opossums, and raccoons were prime eating this time of year. The babies usually died waiting for their mamas to bring food back to them.