What was she up to now? He never knew with Paige. "No problem. Do you have a music preference?"
"Whatever you want to play is fine."
His fingers picked up where he'd left off on the tune for Kirstie, night bugs echoing like a quirky back-up band. Paige stayed quiet as he plucked through the piece while the wind carried the scent of fresh-mown grass and Paige's flowery soap. He enjoyed how she just let him play without needing a running commentary. He enjoyed a lot of things about her, which made it tough to keep his no-kissing, no-touching rule for the past week.
Living in the same place crammed more getting-to-know-each-other time into a few days than he would normally have in a month of dates. Along with information he would never find out through dinner and a movie, even dinner and a movie followed by sex.
He'd discovered she refused to share her newspaper with anyone who crinkled the edges or creased the pages in the wrong direction. She was a fastidious neatnik around the house, picking up any crumb she or Kirstie spilled, but would step over Vic's same pair of discarded socks for four days running in an admirable refusal to be anyone's maid.
She needed three alarms ringing successively before she rolled out of bed every morning, a fact that tortured him on a daily basis through the wall as he was forced to wake up early and think about her lying in bed wearing a nightshirt or sleep pants or satin.
Or nothing.
All of that should have made his head explode. Except he knew she overslept because after working all day she often stayed up late curled beside Kirstie to soothe away nightmares. When she read the paper, her eyes filled with sentimental tears over who-knew-what. And while she walked over Vic Jansen's socks, she never said a word about how ratty those socks were. She'd confided to Bo they'd been a present from Vic's daughter shortly before the little girl drowned.
No wonder the guy was overprotective of the females in his life, and this woman with her roughened hands and soft heart more than deserved some pampering.
Bo stopped playing and rested his guitar against the porch railing, then shrugged out of his leather flight jacket. "Here. Wear this. It's cold out tonight."
Teeth chattering, Paige stared at Bo's jacket that would carry his musky-scented heat and reminded herself about the cold-day-in-hell resolve. "I'm fine, thanks."
He skimmed a finger up her chilled arm, raising fresh goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cold now. "Really?"
No, but rejecting the jacket would be a telling move. She'd come out here to prove a point. She set aside her paperwork and slipped her arms into the sleeves. Oh, yeah, definitely still warm and spicy smelling.
Bo tapped the edge of the folders on her lap. "What's that you've got there?"
"Mail. Billing stuff for the clinic. Some paperwork from my attorney in Charleston."
"Attorney?"
"There are so many things to take care of when someone dies, especially when they die in a pile of trouble." She tried to laugh, but it lodged in her throat. "I don't want to think about all of this right now.">Paige tugged her around in front and looped both arms around Kirstie, mother and daughter a mirror image of blond hair, glasses and wide eyes. "We thought it might be better if one of us drives her for a while."
Safer.
What was wrong with the world that the kid couldn't ride the bus with her friends?
"Going with Mom's cool. You probably get to sleep later, huh?"
"Nope." Kirstie watched him unload with obvious resentment.
Hey, kids always liked him. He was a pal. Tossing aside his military-green duffel, he knelt in front of her. "How about I take you up for a ride in the plane after we're done with work today?"
Kirstie squinted, her resentment double blaring. Yeah, kid, you're gonna have to pick.
Carry the grudge—whatever the hell the reason—or get your flight. Standing, he backed up to give her space, the seed planted. "Think about it while you're at school and we can talk more later."
Paige's pretty lips mouthed, "Thank you." Then she leaned to face her daughter. "Run and get your lunch box off the counter, punkin, or we're going to be late."
After the kid sprinted up the stairs and out of sight, Paige turned back toward him, the muggy wind playing with her hair that refused to stay constrained in a red rubber band.
Memories of their kiss from the day before, a kiss they'd never been alone long enough to discuss, hung in the air between them. Better to face it head-on and get the subject past.
Paige toyed with a drooping branch overhead. "About that kiss—"
"—that we shouldn't—" He stopped. "What?"
She waved for him to continue. "You first."