“Couple of hours.”
“ ’Zat all?”
He grunted. There was an upheaval behind her and chilly air rushed under the sleeping bag, making her hunch her shoulders as he sat up. Frowning, she cranked her eyelids open just enough to see what he was doing as he sat up and turned off the small propane heater. Oh, okay. They were warm now, so they should save the fuel.
Her eyelids drifted shut again, closed out the dim light. It was still raining, hard, but now that she was dry and warm the effect was soporific. Dare lay down behind her again, sliding up close and tight, his heavy arm resuming its place draped over her waist. It was almost like sitting in his lap. She snuggled even closer against him, wiggling her butt to find the most comfortable spot, and went back to sleep.
She surfaced again with a sharp “Ouch!” when she banged her foot against his. Still not fully awake, she struggled to a sitting position and sat there, owlishly blinking her eyes, looking around but not really seeing their surroundings. With a groan, Dare rolled onto his back, letting his arm fall over his face to block out the light.
Angie closed her eyes and leaned against her upraised left knee. The pain in her ankle had already subsided, leaving her with no imperative to do anything except sit there, caught in a sticky web of inertia. She would have glared at the offending joint, but that took too much effort, so she just sat there, grumpy and half asleep. “You awake?” she whispered after a few seconds, when Dare hadn’t moved again. If he wasn’t she didn’t want to disturb him, but if he was … well, she didn’t know why she was asking.
“After you punched me? Yeah, I’m awake,” he growled.
She thought about that, wondering if she should be indignant at being falsely accused, but again unable to muster the energy. “I didn’t punch you.” Maybe. She was pretty sure she hadn’t. She turned her head, still resting it against her knee, and opened her eyes a little. “But I might have kicked you, because it hurt my ankle.”
“You punched me.”
Even as sleepy as she was, as punch-drunk, she was still capable of logic. “How? You were behind me. I can’t punch backward.”
“When you sat up.” He moved his arm just enough for one half-opened eye to glower at her. “You punched me in the stomach.”
They glared at each other, sleepy and irritable. She could feel herself weaving. Heaving a sigh, she closed her eyes again while she thought about what he’d said. “Not a punch,” she finally insisted, having fumbled her way through her cloudy memories and making a decision. “That was my elbow, not my fist.”
“My stomach appreciates the difference. Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it now?”
He looked at his watch. “About half an hour after the last time you asked.”
This wasn’t good. If she woke up every time she moved her foot, she wasn’t going to get much rest at all.
He heaved his own sigh. “Okay, let’s try this.” He flipped the sleeping bag to the side. “Lie down on your back.”
“Hey!” She reached for the sleeping bag, protesting as the chilly air reached her.
“I’ll cover us up again. Damn it, would you just lie down?” He didn’t wait for compliance, just kind of sandwiched her in his arms and laid her back. Then he hooked his right arm under her knees, lifted her legs, and he shifted into the spoon position around her before draping her legs over his thighs. “How’s that?”
It was actually very comfortable, at least for now. “Good,” she muttered.
He stretched to reach the edge of the sleeping bag, and pulled it around them again, making sure the fabric wasn’t tight around her feet. A deep sigh eased from his chest as he settled down, not an impatient sigh but one of relaxation; he curled his left arm under his head, and went back to sleep like a stone dropping into dark water.
The moment, the situation, etched itself on her brain. Carefully (DOT) she turned her head just enough that was she able to see his face. This close to him, even in the dim light, she could see every thick, dark lash, the details of his strong facial bone structure, the small scar across the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t a pretty man, by any means, but he was definitely a man. As angry as she’d been at him, as much as she’d resented the way he’d siphoned off so much of her business just by being him, she had also never been immune to him. If he was anywhere in the vicinity, she was acutely aware of his exact location, the rough, scratchy timbre of his voice; the powerful, restrained grace of his movements. It was as if her skin was a compass to his magnetic north, and she’d hated that weakness in herself.
Angie lay awake for a few minutes—a very few—listening to the rain and the heavy, rhythmic sound of Dare’s breathing. She was in the one place she’d never thought she would be—in bed with him, in his arms—and it felt so natural she wasn’t certain she really was awake.
She needed to think, but … later.
He woke her by gently lifting her legs off his. “What’re you doing?” she muttered fretfully, because she’d managed to get some decent sleep in that position. She should be sleeping like a dead person, but instead they seemed to be destined for one to wake the other every little while.
“Gotta go.” He sat up and scrubbed both hands over his face, his bristly growth of beard sounding like sandpaper on his rough palms.
“Go where? It’s still pouring down.” More asleep than awake, she gave him a look that managed to be both befuddled and grumpy.