Coating his fingers with it so he could bring her taste to his lips.
Saliva pooled in his mouth as he stared at Gemma. Maybe she felt his fierce regard, because her attention moved away from Eli and then she was looking at Boone, another sweet flush blooming on her creamy skin.
The moment seemed to stretch forever, their gazes locked.
Then Eli said something that regained her attention. Shifting her focus to the other man, she laughed. Boone’s fingers cramped on the edges of the plastic flat, his muscles bunched, and his back teeth ground against each other. Little nothings, Eli was spouting, Boone could tell. Which meant nothing. Still…
Striding forward, Boone came to a swift decision. Yeah, he was going to be the proverbial dog in the manger. It wasn’t fair, because he didn’t intend to make a move on Gemma, but, damn it, he wasn’t going to allow Eli to make one on her either.
Bending to put the flat on the ground, his shoulder knocked Eli back a step. As he straightened, Boone used the disturbance to murmur two words for his friend’s ears only. “Claim,” he said, his voice low and dark, “staked.”
Chapter 4
With another platter in hand, this time bearing vanilla cupcakes with vanilla icing, Gemma made her way to her neighbor’s front door in the Saturday evening twilight. She forced her finger to the bell, refusing any second thoughts.
No chickening out.
It was time to take care of the unsettling power imbalance between them once and for all. Then she could promptly forget everything about the man and go on with her life.
Her heart started to pound as she heard the sound of a lock turn. The moment stretched as she pictured him as he’d been earlier in the day, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, battered running shoes on his feet, and his hair in that careless muss that made her fingers itch to touch. His friend Eli had been nice enough, with an attractive smile and a confident manner, but when both men stood in her backyard, she’d been hyperaware of Boone, his watchful dark eyes, his quiet presence, the muscled bigness of the man.
Now the door swung open. The light in his foyer illuminated him perfectly. Bare feet, another pair of low-slung jeans, and dangling from his hand a navy-blue shirt…because his chest was naked.
Um, bare.
Um, amazing.
Heavy shoulders, defined pecs—defined pecs—rippled abs. Dark hair, not a carpet of fur, but a dusting, spread across his breastbone between his copper-colored nipples, reducing to a line tracing down the middle of his belly that drew her attention lower to—
Uh-oh. Her gaze flew up and she prayed he hadn’t noticed her wandering eyes. “Hey,” she said to his impassive face, pretending like mad she hadn’t been on the brink of measuring his private assets. “Did I…” Clearing her throat, she tried on a polite smile. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Instead of answering, he disappeared behind cotton fabric as he pulled the Henley shirt over his head. Gemma tried keeping any disappointment off her face as his own emerged and then he slipped his arms into long sleeves and yanked down the cotton knit over his torso.
When he shoved the stretchy cuffs toward his elbows, she stared again, transfixed by his strong wrists and the veined thickness of his forearms.
“What did you want?” he asked, his voice rough at the edges.
Her gaze shifted to his face again and she tried another polite smile. “I, um…” She could smell a masculine soap, faintly spicy, and she noted the wet glossiness of his black hair. Just out of the shower? “You see…”
Before she could finish her thought, his focus moved over her shoulder and he frowned. “Why didn’t you turn on your walkway lights?”
Gemma glanced back at the deepening dusk. “They don’t work. I’m not sure what the problem is, but the switch that’s supposed to activate them—well, it doesn’t.”
His frown deepened. “I’ll take a look,” he said, then stepped out of sight. Before she could react he was back and striding over the threshold, his bare feet now slipped into a pair of leather flip-flops.
Forced to move out of his way, Gemma took a firmer grip on the cupcakes. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I kind of do,” Boone remarked, his long legs eating up the distance between the two homes.
Gemma scurried to keep up. On her porch, he asked for her key and she admitted she’d left the door unlocked.
The speaking look he threw her way made her wince, but he’d already turned around to push his way into her place, leaving her to follow. Hovering at his elbow, she bit her lip as he tested the switches on the plate beside the open door.
“See? They don’t come on,” she said, referring to the low fixtures lining the walkway, still unresponsive.
“Yeah.” He fished a small device out of his pocket that shortly bristled with multiple tools. His nimble fingers quickly unscrewed the plastic rectangle from the wall to expose a plastic box and some wires. A grunt seemed to signal he’d diagnosed the problem.
“Give me a second and I’ll have it put to rights.”
Gemma thought she should still protest. “You don’t have to—”
“I kind of do,” he said again, inexplicably, and before she could push for more details, he manipulated something that caused the outdoor lights to glow.
“Oh,” she said, relieved. “That wasn’t too difficult.”
“Not at all.” His hands moved again, refastening the switch plate. Then the door swung shut, closing them both inside her house. Shifting to face her, she realized her body stood much too close to his. With a step back, she cleared her throat once more. “Thank you. Again.” Remembering the cupcakes in hand, she started to offer them. “Here—”
“I’ll check the rest of the house,” he said, not even glancing at the platter.
“Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking. I’m saying.” He found another nearby light switch and flipped it up, then down. “These homes have a warranty, you know.”
She didn’t. “I haven’t been here long.”
“I noticed that.” On the move again, Boone spun a knob that brightened the lights in the living room, revealing in detail the fussy gingham curtains with their deep ruffle that covered the large picture window. The blue-and-white checked fabric matched the throw pillows on the couch and those on the two easy chairs.
His gaze roamed the room and Gemma felt her face heat. No way could he miss the folk art-styled stuffed cats perched on a nearby shelf, one dressed in a gingham dress, the other in a vest with small buttons. Both had straw hats perched between their ears and doll-sized fishing rods with little felt fish dangling at the end of each line.
Stuffed mice dressed like square dancers were grouped on the coffee table and the dual end tables, each piece of furniture painted a flat white then sanded here and there, a faux stressed look popular with DIYers.
“I didn’t decorate,” she said hastily. “These aren’t my things.”
He pinned her with a gaze, one eyebrow flaring high. “You’re squatting then?”
“No!” Her eyes rounded. “Some friends are on an extended trip to Europe and are letting me stay here. Just until my new place is available.”
“I was kidding,” he said, heading deeper into the house. “Any trouble with the electrical outlets?”
Following his voice, she found him in the second bedroom, the one where she slept. Carole’s hobby of handmade décor hadn’t yet made it to this space, so Gemma didn’t share it with costumed animals and stenciled signs expressing inspirations like “You will never regret being kind,” and “Today is a good day for a good day,” that filled much of the home.
With Gemma’s neighbor standing on the threshold, the square footage seemed to shrink. She studied the area, relieved to confirm it was tidy enough. Clothes picked up and put away, the sheets and spread lying smoothly atop the queen-sized mattress. But then Boone stepped inside, invading her most personal of spaces. Air backed up in her lungs.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked, as he approached the bed.
With a puzzled expression, he glanced over at her. “Testing.”
Her nerves? Her will power? Because she’d never had a man quite like this one so close to a place where she slept. If he didn’t get out of here, she’d never be able to shut her eyes again without fantasizing of—Gemma reined in her wayward thoughts. “I don’t know what you’re after,” she said.
He switched her bedside lamp on, then off.
“Boone?”
The uneasy tone of her voice must have caught his attention. He turned around, those dark brows of his meeting in the middle. “Yes?”
“I’m wondering…” She sucked in a breath to calm herself. “Look. I don’t really know you. I don’t know what you’re doing here exactly.”
His expression softened a fraction, and everything shifted in the second that change took. Before this moment, he’d been not quite real, almost a one-dimensional figure of over-the-top virility, with his dark good looks, his stony countenance, and his near silence. He’d been a dangerous, and yes, exciting ideal, that had sparked her imagination and set fire to her blood. But he’d been more…more mirage than man.
But now, his danger was tempered with something she couldn’t quite name.
Though it was something, she was sure, that could prove even more threatening to a woman like her.
Tenderness?
Whatever its name, it only meant she had to get him out of her house and out of her life.
Men had been firmly placed on her no-go list.
Frowning now, Boone took a step toward her. She took an immediate step back.
He halted, grimacing. “Hell,” he muttered. “I’ve come off as barely civilized, haven’t I?”
She bit her lip to hold back the hysterical reply that she was afraid it was a large part of his appeal. “Could we… How about we leave the bedroom?”
“Sure, sure.” He gestured, encouraging her to lead the way.
Her feet proceeded to the kitchen, still warm and fragrant from her baking. Setting the platter on the counter, she turned to face him, the small of her back against the edge of the granite. Taking up a similar position across from her, his gaze wandered the kitchen, passing over the hand-stenciled signs. A stuffed pig in a chef’s cap, apron, and wielding a midget wooden spoon sat in the middle of the kitchen table, its plump, hoofed legs splayed wide.
Boone looked from the little beast to Gemma. “Not your domestic animal?”
She crossed her heart with one fingertip. “No.”
With a nod, he leaned against the opposite counter. “So…you’re housesitting.”
“For Carole and Walt Johnson. They’re on an extended vacation in Europe and won’t be back for a few more weeks.”
“I’ll have to meet them when they return. I’m Boone, by the way, John Boone. I should have made clear right away that my interest in the wiring is because I supervised the construction of these houses.”
Ah. No wonder he’d assumed responsibility for the malfunctioning lights and had talked about a warranty. “You work for Sawyer Construction?”
“Yeah. I moved into my own place only last week. It was the last in the development to be completed.”
“Okay. Well.” With that line of conversation hitting a dead end, she gestured to the treats she’d made earlier. Get on with the getting-him-out-of-your-life business. “I baked you cupcakes this time. Vanilla.”
Unfortunately, he didn’t look particularly grateful. “Where’d the brownies go?”
“I took them to work. When I made them, it didn’t occur to me you might be allergic to chocolate.”
“I’m not allergic to chocolate.”
Her eyebrows snapped together. “You wouldn’t take the brownies.” So she and May had been forced to eat them, resulting in an afternoon sugar-sick.
“Because I would have had to bring back that pretty plate they were sitting on.”
Gemma stared. “You’re against returning serving ware?”
“I’m against that slick-looking boyfriend of yours. I might have run into him over here.”
A little rush of pleasure pushed through her bloodstream, though she was afraid to examine exactly why. “You mean Ethan?”
“The guy who broke your planter.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
At Boone’s long silence, she was forced to fill in more detail. “He was, but we broke up.”
“Does he know he’s not your boyfriend?”
She nodded, then decided two could play this game. “What about you?” It was getting easier to ignore her stupid blushes. “A wife, steady lover, or kids in your life?”
“Not interested in having any of them.”
Okay, well. He certainly didn’t sugarcoat his preferences. Which reminded her once more of her own preference—that he’d hurry on his way. Now. Grabbing up the platter, she held it out. “They’re not brownies, but there’s nothing wrong with vanilla. I hope you’ll like them.”
Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry.
“Vanilla, huh?” Instead of taking the entire plate and heading home as she’d hoped, he reached for a single treat and peeled away the paper wrapping. “I look like a vanilla kind of guy to you?”
Gemma ignored the possible sexual connotation, determined to hide the errant bend of her mind. “Like I said, I really don’t know you.” She watched him consume the cupcake in two bites.
“Lived here most of my life. From third grade on,” he said, dropping the liner onto the platter she still held. “You?”
“Same with me.” She set the cupcakes aside. “Before college, I went to the Catholic girls’ school in town…St. Mary’s.”
Which went a long way to explaining why she didn’t have the proper skills to usher Boone out of her house. Raised primarily by and with females, she’d never been one of those types who was comfortable around men. This despite—or because of—the many father- and uncle-figures who had come and gone in her twenty-six years of life.
“What about siblings?” she heard herself question next. It must have come from deep in her subconscious, the place where she stored the counsel her female relatives had been wont to share since she turned eleven.
Always encourage a man to talk about himself, her Aunt Rita advised. The eighty/twenty rule works well. More if you can manage it, because men love to hear their own voices and even better, they can’t resist a mystery.
Yes, her mother had agreed. The more you hold back, the more he’ll want you.
“Not a brother or sister,” Boone said now. “You?”
“Only child as well,” she readily admitted, because her goal wasn’t to be irresistible to the man. Instead, she wanted him to make tracks and put distance between them. Then he’d be nothing more than an odd little memory of that time a man had provoked an unsettling, distinctly visceral reaction from her.
In the ensuing silence, she struggled once again with how to encourage his leave-taking. She looked down at her hands. Tucked her hair behind her ears. Braved a brief peek at him from under her lashes.
Then couldn’t look away from him, because he was so…there.
Male.
The whole room seemed to heat, making it hard to breathe as she found herself fascinated by his mouth again, his lips framed by the dark shadow of a heavy evening beard.
Her nerves strung tight and the tiny hairs on her body jumped to attention, her whole self waiting—no, expecting—Boone to make a move.
To touch her. Taste her.
A kiss.
Step closer, a voice urged. Not her mother’s. Not her aunt’s. Something her very own, coming from low in her belly. Lower.
Anticipation stole the rest of her air. Goose bumps prickled over her body as she waited for the rasp of his whiskers against her flesh, the heated press of his lips, the strong and sure stroke of his tongue. Sex, she thought. He kindled that fire in her and the intensity of it frightened her. But still,
she wanted it. Wanted him.
Surely, she thought, that desire went both ways.
Her gaze lifted to his.
He straightened abruptly, pushing away from the counter. “I should go,” he said, his voice raspy. “Time for me to leave you alone.”
Disappointment warred with relief. “Yes,” she said, her voice faint, the word lost to him because he was already heading for the door, his footsteps loud as they clapped against the hardwood hallway toward the front entrance.
She didn’t follow. What she did was stare at the damn batch of cupcakes that he’d managed to leave behind. Twenty-three remaining symbols of her failure. “We’ll have to eat them all at once,” she told the pig.
Though she could practically guarantee their consumption wouldn’t get rid of her unfamiliar, unwelcome, and continuing fascination with the man next door.
* * *
Boone drove away from the work site, pleasantly tired. He’d helped haul the parts of an HVAC system up two flights of stairs and into the attic of the remodel on Gull Drive. The bones of the old house were good, but his crew had gutted the first floor because the homeowners wanted an open layout. On the second floor, they were reconfiguring three small bedrooms into two and an extra bath.
The project was on budget and on schedule, which he’d celebrate with a cold beer, something pulled from his freezer that he could nuke for dinner, and an evening watching college basketball on his big screen.
He was owed a reward for the solid progress on the job and for the fact that three nights ago he’d walked away from the blatant invitation on his neighbor’s face.
The woman had wanted a kiss.
And, hell, he’d wanted to oblige, but he’d taken the better road and hustled away from her.
Leaving the cupcakes behind.
And the luscious cupcake who’d baked them.
Yeah, an effin’ medal should have been pinned on his chest. So he figured fate had stepped in to make the beginning of his work week hassle free, a bonus for his white-night behavior on Saturday evening. Sure, he’d wound up taking a second shower that night and sure, he’d thought of her as the heated spray hit his shoulders and he’d stroked his shaft with a firm grip, imagining the way her tongue slid across her full bottom lip as she stole a look at him from under her absurdly long lashes.
ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1) Page 4
