King's Treasure (Oil Kings Book 3) by Marie Johnston (great novels .TXT) 📗

probably warm for the hot chocolate. You need to get changed.”

“Hot chocolate?” I’d drunk a lot of things over the years, but I hadn’t had hot chocolate since I was a kid. Probably since before Mama died.

“Yes. I threw a pot of milk on the stove to warm up while we finished. You must be freezing.”

I was, but I’d build an army of snowmen to have another afternoon like this again.

She took off inside, rattling off instructions for putting my clothes where they would be laundered. I took that to mean neither her, her sister, nor her Mom—and definitely not Chief—did their own laundry. I couldn’t see her lugging a basket of wet jeans outside to hang on the line like I usually did.

In Savvy’s bedroom, I took off my wet clothes and found the one pair of flannel pants I lugged around the world. This house didn’t invite lounging in pajamas, but the skin on my legs stung as I warmed and flannel wouldn’t add to the discomfort.

I was rolling on a sweatshirt when there was a soft knock on the door.

“Yeah?”

Savvy poked her head in. She’d thrown her hair up into a messy bun that bounced when she moved. She still wore the black leggings and pink long-sleeved shirt she’d had on this morning. “The hot chocolate is ready. I turned on the fireplace in the sitting room.” She shifted and bit her lip, her hand still on the doorknob. “Want to watch a movie or something?”

I wanted to spend more time with her and that sounded perfect, but to keep from scaring her back into her shell, I kept it light. “Turned on the fireplace?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stifle a smile. “Yes, Montana boy. It’s electric.”

“All right, city girl. But I’m gonna have a hard time calling it a fireplace.”

That earned me a head shake as she turned to go and I followed her downstairs to the den. We passed her Mom’s office, but the door was closed.

The house was quiet. We weren’t alone, yet I had her to myself. As she turned on the big TV over the fireplace, I settled on the plush couch that didn’t fit in with the estate feel of the rest of the house .

I yanked the brown cashmere blanket off the back and spread it over me and my rapidly warming legs. Other things were going to demand my blood flow if she kept standing in front of me like that, her shapely legs glowing from the light of the fake fire.

She flipped through streaming services, holding the remote even though she was standing a foot away from the TV. “What do you want to watch?”

Careful of the steaming cup on the coffee table in front of me, I put my feet up. “Come sit and we’ll decide together.”

She looked over her shoulder at me, then at the rest of the couch. I purposely hadn’t left much room. She could sit on the love seat, but I patted the cushion next to me, hoping she’d choose to help me warm up.

The longer she took to decide, the more I gave up on making any more progress with my wife today. But finally she skirted the coffee table and perched next to me.

I held up a flap of the blanket. “Don’t worry, I’m harmless. I’m still thawing out. You can even pick the show.”

She studied me for a moment, her eyes going back and forth between mine. I thought she was going to insist on the blanket arrangement we had in bed, but she said, “What if I pick a chick flick?”

“What if I like chick flicks?”

She fought a grin. “What even is a chick flick?”

“Die Hard?”

She laughed, carefree, just like outside, and scooted close until she was under the blanket. I leaned forward and grabbed our drinks.

She accepted hers and flipped through the options, her shoulder bumping mine as she took a sip, her body heat seeping into me. I soaked her up, every bit she was willing to give.

“How’s this?” she asked as if I didn’t want to haul her on top of my lap and taste the hot chocolate on her tongue.

I didn’t bother to read the title. “Perfect.”

Chapter 8

Savvy

My sister pounded on the bathroom door. “Are you hiding in there?”

“Of course not, Pearl. Wait your turn!”

I’d only been done for the last twenty minutes, sitting on the toilet because I’d forgotten my clothes to change into. Twenty-plus years of getting myself dressed in my room was a hard habit to break, but I’d been doing well in the few days I’d been sharing a room with Xander. With my husband. The husband I couldn’t bring myself to change in front of.

It was hard enough not to climb him like a sexy telephone pole after sitting next to him for two hours watching . . . I couldn’t even remember what we’d watched. I hadn’t paid attention to the show. All I remembered was picking something I knew didn’t have sex scenes that’d make a pleasant afternoon uncomfortable.

That’d happened anyway. He had been solid next to me. A wall of cozy muscle and a blanket of heat that put my mother’s cashmere throw to shame. There was no reason I couldn’t have curled into him, slipped my hand under his shirt and felt his hot skin on mine. No damn reason.

But I hadn’t.

Just like I slept between the sheets and he slept on top, not pushing me, not cajoling me, not pressuring me in any way to do what we’d done only minutes after saying I do.

Confusion swirled inside of me. Why couldn’t I bring myself to be intimate with him again? Every time I looked at him, I noticed the way his broad shoulders filled a doorway, or how his hair flopped over his forehead and blunted the hard edge of his manliness, or the way he walked with a swagger that made desire coil in my belly until I wanted to match his swagger with