Page 34 of Better than Famous

He squeezed the trigger, and a spray of cool water hit my legs, washing away the black mud. It was shocking and wonderful against the sticky heat of the afternoon. He worked his way up, spraying my knees, my shorts, carefully avoiding my face but getting the worst of the muck off my shirt.

I turned in a circle, letting the water sluice over me. It was refreshing. It was cleansing.

He lowered the nozzle. "Okay. I think you’re salvageable."

He was dry, clean, and looking entirely too smug about my predicament. A mischievous impulse, dormant for years under layers of media training, sparked to life in my chest.

"You missed a spot." I took a step toward him.

His brow furrowed, his gaze dropping to my legs. "Where?"

"Here."

I lunged forward and grabbed the nozzle from his hand. Before he could react, I squeezed the trigger and aimed it square at his chest.

"Hey!" Ben shouted, jumping back, but it was too late. The stream of water hit him dead center, soaking his shirt instantly.

I laughed, spraying him again as he tried to dodge. "Now we’re even! You can’t have a dirty guest and a clean host. It disrupts the power dynamic."

"Oh, you want a power dynamic?" Ben growled, but he was laughing. He lunged for the hose.

I tried to run, but my ankle protested, and he was too fast. He caught me around the waist, his arm like a steel band, and wrestled the nozzle from my grip. But he didn’t push me away. He pulled me back against his chest, holding my wrist to keep me from spraying him again, effectively trapping me in his arms. The water shut off as his hand released the trigger.

Suddenly, we were standing very still.

The laughter died in my throat. I was pressed against his front, my back to his chest. The heat of him radiated through our soaking wet clothes. Water ran from my hair, running down my neck and soaking into his shirt.

The playfulness evaporated, leaving behind a new tension. But not the scary, angry tension of yesterday and this morning. Now the vibe was sunny, domestic. It was the tension of two people who liked each other immensely and were currently wet, sweaty, and tangled together in a garden.

Ben didn’t let go. His arm tightened around my waist for a fraction of a second, and he pulled me flush against him. I leaned my head back against his shoulder and stared up at the sky, enjoying the solid wall of him behind me.

"You’re trouble," he murmured, his mouth right next to my ear. His breath ghosted over my wet skin, sending goosebumps racing down my arms.

"I tried to warn you."

He turned me around in his arms until I was facing him. We were inches apart. Water dripped from his eyelashes, making his eyes impossibly bright. He looked at my mouth, then slowly back up to my eyes.

He wasn’t going to kiss me. He had drawn a line yesterday, and Ben Coleridge was a man who respected lines. But the way he was devouring me with his eyes said that he wanted to. It said that the line was costing him. He reached out and brushed a wet, muddy strand of hair away from my cheek. His knuckles lingered on my skin for a heartbeat in a tender, possessive touch that felt louder than a kiss.

"Let’s go in and get dry," he said, his voice huskier now. "Storm’s coming." He stepped back and released me, but the warmth of his body lingered like a phantom limb.

"Yeah." My voice came out breathy. "Storm’s coming."

As we walked toward the cottage door, dripping water onto the gravel, we left wet footprints on the porch. The sky overhead was darkening, and the wind was picking up. But I wasn’t worried about the weather. The storm between us had broken, and the air was finally clear.

The transition from the humid yard to the air-conditioned cottage was so stark I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself as I stood on the welcome mat, trying not to drip on the floor.

Ben tossed me a clean towel from the linen closet in the hallway. “After you shower, put the dirty clothes in the hamper. I’ll run a load of laundry."

"Thanks." I caught the towel, then hesitated. He stood in the kitchen, soaking wet, his shirt clinging to his chest, looking rugged and real and safe. And incredibly sexy. "Ben?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m glad the iguana didn’t bite me."

He smiled, the soft, private smile he had given me during the Fleetwood Mac debate. "Me too, Sutton. Me too."

He moved down the hall and closed his bedroom door softly behind him. I pressed the towel to my face, inhaling the scent of cedar and detergent, and smiled into the terrycloth. I was muddy, I was bruised, and I was hiding from the entire world. But standing in the quiet hallway, I experienced an emotion I hadn’t felt in far too long.