Page 42 of Axe-Rated Lumberjack

“Agreed.” Peyton squeezed my hand. “I’d rather talk about it than make assumptions.”

Peyton settled closer beside me, smiling.

“I was afraid that might be terribly awkward,” she admitted. “But you’re making it rather easy to tell you what I want.”

“I like knowing what you’re thinking. Saves me a lot of guessing.”

She smiled and touched my cheek.

“Then I’ll tell you something else. I love the way you talk to me. Not when you’re reading Drake’s lines, although I certainly enjoy those. I mean when you’re just being yourself. You have a wonderful voice, and I love hearing you say what you’re thinking.”

I leaned into her touch.

“Then I’ll make sure you hear plenty of it.”

Her smile turned playful as she moved closer.

“Good. Because I’ve got a few ideas about what I’d like you to say.”

I laughed softly and kissed her.

She responded eagerly, her hands settling against my shoulders as she drew me closer.

After a while, she pulled back and looked toward the hallway.

“Would you like to come to bed with me?”

I brushed my thumb along her cheek, enjoying the confidence in her question.

“Very much.”

She stood and offered me her hand.

I followed her to the bedroom she’d been using for sleeping, separate from the recording space. A quilt covered the bed, and a small lamp cast a warm glow across the bedside table. A book lay near her glasses case, with a folded cardigan resting on the chair beside the window.

Peyton turned to face me.

She was smiling, but I could see a little nervousness in her eyes.

I drew her gently into my arms.

“You said you had a few ideas,” I told her. “I’m listening.”

“You’ll hear them.”

She smiled up at me, then caught the front of my shirt and drew me down for another kiss.

Her mouth still tasted faintly of cinnamon from the spiced nuts, and she kissed me with the same unhurried curiosity she brought to a difficult paragraph. I kept my hands at her waist and let her set the pace, which turned out to be bolder than I’d braced for. When she finally let go of my shirt front, it was only so she could start on the buttons.

She worked from the top down, taking the one at my throat first and then the next, watching her own fingers as though she meant to memorize the sequence.

“I was hoping you’d show up in something that buttoned all the way to the neck,” she said. “I had a theory that it would take a satisfyingly long time to get through.”

“If I’d known there was going to be a quiz, I’d have worn two.”

“It isn’t a quiz. It’s closer to a long-term research project.” She reached the fourth button and looked up, and her glasses slid down her nose. She pushed them back with one knuckle without losing her place. “You’re allowed to look smug, you know.”

“I’m not smug. I’m working very hard at standing still.”