Farraway Mist ?A Wattpad featured story?

Chapter 7: Convalescing

George apparently took the part about Scout's convalescence seriously. He let her move to one of the lounge chairs on the terrace in the afternoon, but that was it, and even then, it was only if she was bundled up against the capricious ocean chill.

"Jesus, George," Scout said, laughing as he piled yet another blanket on her, "I can't even move my legs anymore."

"Well, lucky for you moving your legs isn't necessary, then, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically. "I'm here, at your beck and call, so you don't have to move at all," he said with a firm nod, sitting down next to her.

"It's not even cold," she noted, looking around. There wasn't even a hint of a breeze this afternoon, and the flagstones radiated a comfortable warmth up onto their reclining bodies. The ocean was flat calm as far as the eye could see, possibly all the way to France. Jess and Bandit stretched out, enjoying the unusual temperatures, and Scout tried to unwrap herself a little so the sun could touch her pale arms and legs.

"Oh my god this feels amazing," she murmured. "Hard to believe two days ago I was in Connecticut, freezing my ass off."

"Oh? Was it cold back in Connecticut?" George asked, looking over at Scout, shading his eyes.

Scout nodded, eyes shut. "I lived on the coast, there, too, and it was pretty foggy. You had to go north or south to hit the sunny spots, the touristy spots? Only the locals where we live. Just a lot of horses and farms and old, old houses, you know?"

She finally huffed a breath of exasperation and kicked the blankets off, exposing her legs, which were still in her cotton pajamas. She rolled the legs up as far as she could, above her knees, and George saw with alarm that she had some very big bruises on her pale calves and thighs.

Scout sat up to see what he was looking at. "What?" she asked. "Not up to your standards?"

George gave her a look. "Some of those bruises look pretty painful, that's all," he said.

Scout looked at them and shrugged. "I bruise very easily, because I'm so pale," she said casually. "And I play pretty hard, so I guess I've gotten used to seeing them on myself." She lay back down, closing her eyes once more.

George continued to look at her legs, taking his time now that she was no longer watching him stare.

Some of the bruises looked like hand prints to George, they looked like her legs had been grabbed by someone.

He swallowed and looked away, lying down and closing his eyes.

It simply wasn't possible.

Was it?

And she was so slim, thin, even, she could be hurt, like really hurt, so easily. He turned his head, almost against his will, his eyes sliding over her slender, vulnerable form. Her head was balanced on her delicate neck, her collarbones clearly visible under the almost sheer material of her pajama top. He could almost count each rib down her side, and he could see the swell of her tiny breasts, the nipples pressing upward with every breath she took. The shirt had ridden up a little, and a strip of white midriff and the indentation of her navel showed between it and the waistband of the bottoms. George found himself watching to see if it moved as she breathed, and checking to see if he could tell whether or not she was wearing knickers.

He realized what he was doing and rolled his eyes, turning his head resolutely away from the pixie lying next to him with the ridiculous rolled up pajama bottoms, telling himself she didn't want him, she didn't like him, she didn't even like men, and to stop acting like a randy teenager, for Christ's sake.

Next to him, Scout fought the urge to roll her pajama bottoms down so she didn't look quite so idiotic, and told herself to just enjoy the feel of the sun. She had no reason to care what George Wilder thought about how she looked, for crying out loud. He was one of the most sought after men on the planet, who was still in love with his dead wife, who'd been one of the most sought after women on the planet, for fuck's sake, so stop acting ridiculous.