His forehead creased in a scowl. She was babying him, treating him like some lost little boy who had wandered in out of the rain and fallen asleep on her sofa. She had fed him and pampered him and then covered him up in a quilt, one she had probably made herself. It was the same thing his grandmother would have done, and somehow her thoughtfulness made him angry.
Made him angry because somewhere, deep beneath the hardened shell of his heart and his gruff exterior, the thoughtful deed touched some starving part of him, the part that still needed a home to return to and the loving arms of a woman to hold him. It had nothing to do with sex; it had everything to do with need.
Though he had sworn to never care again, he could already feel the stirring around his heart, a feeling that both hurt and felt good, all at the same time. He couldn’t remember the last time he looked at a woman and felt that swell of emotion.
Angry to have confronted such confusing emotions he thought long buried, Lange jumped to his feet and started for the door. He had to get out of here, and he had to get out fast. He had known the lady for less than twenty-four hours, and already she had stirred up feelings dormant for over five years.
No one had to tell him that getting involved with Ashli Wilson was nothing but trouble.
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