by Lex Martin
Her eyes widen, and she starts to shake her head no.
“I’ll turn around,” I offer. Before she can object, I take her dog’s leash out of her hand and walk away, giving her some privacy to take off her wet shirt and put on mine. We’re hidden off the beaten path between thick brush and big leaf maples, so she’s not in danger of flashing anyone.
After a few minutes, she calls, “I’m done, Josh.”
When I turn around, I struggle to keep my eyes in my head.
My shirt has never looked so damn good.
As she holds her soaking wet tank top and jog bra limply in her hand, her tits stick out, giving my shirt curves it never had before. Trying to ignore her high-beamed nipples that make me want to groan, I remind myself who she is—my attorney. Maybe.
But it’s better not think about her as a gorgeous woman who looks hot as fuck in my clothes. Better to change the subject.
“Do you live around here?” I ask as I help her maneuver toward the main path.
“Yeah, just over there.” She points across the park to a neighborhood of small bungalows a few blocks away. I’d actually considered buying one.
“We’re neighbors, then.” Now it’s my turn to point to my building, poking up a few blocks in the other direction. She gives me a small smile, and my pulse kicks up a notch. This girl and her smiles. They just do it for me. “Let me help you get home.”
She shakes her head, taking her dog’s leash from me. “I don’t want to put you out.”
I use my thumb to wipe a clump of mud off her beautiful face, and her breath catches a moment before her cheeks flush.
“It’s the neighborly thing to do.” I lean toward her and coyly whisper, “Besides, who will chase down Mad Max here”—I motion toward her dog—“if he decides to go rogue again?”
A laugh escapes her, and it’s bright and airy and does something weird to my chest.
“I could use a dog wrangler,” she admits.
I wink at her. “It’s my secret talent.”
A smile tilts her lips. “Among other things,” she whispers conspiratorially, her eyes casting down before shifting up to meet mine.
I laugh, only to hide a groan. Because I’d love nothing more than to give her a demo of my talents.
7
Evie
Embarrassment doesn’t quite convey the depth of my mortification.
I wipe out and land in a mud bath in front of Josh freaking Cartwright, my almost client and neighbor, who also happens to be one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.
Of course this happens the day I wear a tank top. I never run in revealing clothes. Sweats and baggy T-shirts are my preferred attire when I’m working out—because, hello, I have big boobs—but I desperately need to do laundry, so this morning I grabbed a tank top and yoga pants, and hoped it was still early enough that I wouldn’t run into any neighbors.
Epic fucking fail.
I swallow and brush my bangs out of my face.
“Thanks for the shirt,” I mutter. It’s one of those long-sleeved dry-weave fabrics that clings to my body. I suppose it could be worse. It could be white instead of gray.
I smile stupidly at Josh as I fight the urge to cover my chest. There might be women out there who are comfortable without a bra, though I’m not one of them. But if I cross my arms, that’ll only draw attention to my hardened nipples.
As if landing face first in the mud wasn’t bad enough, I had to change out of my bra because it snapped, leaving one boob flopping down while the other pointed upward. I suppose that’s what I get for buying it on a close-out rack.
So yes, now I stand with my wet undergarment, dirty tank, and the last shred of my dignity in my hand.
Staring at my shoes, I try to imagine other women in this situation. Angela would probably flaunt it. Kendall would laugh it off. And it’s not as though this guy is a stranger to nudity.
Speaking of…
I blink.
And blink again.
It takes a second for my brain to process that Josh is now shirtless, and holy crap, his body is incredible. Of course, I knew this based on his blog and from him flashing me those abs the other day, but having him hover near me half-dressed is overwhelming.
He’s tall and muscular but lean. And oh, my God, those shoulders. Broad and perfectly sculpted. Leading all the way down to some major forearm porn. If I thought he looked great in a suit, he’s stunning shirtless. No wonder his blog is a hit.
He smiles back, and I feel it all the way down to my knees.
“Glad I can help.”
What? Oh yeah, I thanked him for the shirt.
He kneels down to pet Chauncey, who flops on his back—in a grimy puddle—and rolls around. “Hey, buddy.”
Despite the filth that’s flying, Josh laughs and rubs my sweet, dumb dog on his belly.
“He was in a shelter for months, so now when he gets out, he does his damnedest to break free, even though he limps around the house. He shouldn’t be running at breakneck speeds, but it’s not like he listens to me.”
Josh turns his head to look at me as I talk. “So he’s a rescue dog? He’s an Australian shepherd, right?”
I nod. “My dad thought it would be safer if I got a dog. ‘Evie, it’s dangerous for a single woman living alone.’ You’d think I lived in a war zone instead of Portland with the way he talks.”
I roll my eyes, and Josh laughs. “Dads should be protective.”
Bracing myself on a tree trunk, I bend down next to Josh and wipe some of the mud off Chauncey’s speckled black and white snout. “Anyway, the shelter told me this little guy kept getting adopted and returned because he would tear up people’s back yards or rip up their shoes. They were going to put him down that day, and I swear he knew. He just huddled in a corner whimpering. It broke my heart. I decided then and there that I didn’t care if he dug a hole to Astoria in my back yard or ate my whole wardrobe, I’d never return him.”
Wobbling to a stand, I shrug. “He’s only eaten two pairs of shoes in the last few months. I can live with that.” My ankle throbs, but leaning on the tree helps relieve the pressure.
“Did you name him?”
“Yeah, but Chauncey is a nickname my dad gave him because he thought the name I gave my dog made him sound too big for his britches.”
Josh brushes off his sweats and stands next to me. “What was the original name you gave him?”
“No, you’re gonna laugh. It’s stupid.”
He holds his hands up. “It’s a cardinal sin to laugh at a beautiful woman. I would never do such a thing.”
My cheeks flush, and I look down, hating that I’m divulging something so silly. “I named him Chanticleer from—”
“The Nun’s Priest’s Tale.”
“Yes!” I grin up at him. “I don’t know why I loved The Canterbury Tales because it’s rife with religious corruption and class exploitation. But in high school, my AP English teacher made us rank the characters by wealth, and I spent weeks in the library doing research. For some reason, it stuck with me. And then I read this fantasy novel based on the story that totally made me fall in love with this dumb rooster, The Book of the Dun Cow by—”
“Walter Wangerin, Jr.”
“Holy shit, who are you?” I laugh. “Nobody’s read that book. It’s out of print.”
He studies my face. “My family has an extensive library. We have everything.”
Nodding, I look away. “Of course. Anyway, I have a thing for roosters now because Chanticleer was so brave in protecting his family, and I guess I thought my little shelter dog was brave too.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, and I’m wondering why the hell I just word-vomited all over him when his deep voice sends chills over my arms.
“It’s not a stupid story, Evelyn. Chanticleer’s a great name.”
He stares at me and runs his teeth over his bottom lip, and for some reason, I’m out of breath.
“Please call me Evie.”
/> Of course Chauncey picks this exact moment when I’m not paying attention to yank on his leash. Unable to put my full weight on my ankle, I start to pitch sideways, but just before I tumble right back into the muck, a strong arm wraps around my waist.
“Maybe I should hold his leash,” he whispers in my ear.
Josh gently pulls me upright, so that his warm, bare chest is against my back, and everything in me tightens and aches. When he lets go, his hands immediately go to my shoulders.
“You okay? You’re not going to fall over again, right?” He chuckles.
I turn to thank him for catching me and tell him I’m fine, but he’s so close, his minty breath fans my cheek. His proximity must overpower my brain because what comes out of my mouth is, “You smell really good.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Evelyn.
A smile brightens his whole face, and my body heats from how he studies me.
He clears his throat. “We should get you home so you can ice your ankle. Come on.”
Taking the leash from my hand, he wraps it around his wrist and gives me a wink. I smile back like a klutz who can’t even walk on her own two feet when she’s around him.
Josh’s arm is rock solid across my back as he helps me limp back to my house. In one hand, I have my soiled clothes and with the other, I’m clinging to the hot guy who is almost my biggest client.
This close, I’m inundated by his delicious scent, a hint of woodsy cologne, probably whatever he was wearing last night.
But every time I take a wobbly step, I cringe that my boobs are bouncing around like two Jello molds.
“So, um, you saw the whole thing, huh? My face dive into the puddle?” I need to babble to keep from freaking out about my free-flying boobs.
“You get a ten for perfect form.”
“Oh, my God.” I shake my head. Of all the people to see my swan dive of utter humiliation.
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt too badly. We’ll get you home and take a look at it. Hopefully, you just have a sprained ankle, so you should lay off the ass-kicking this week.”
“Damn it. That’s going to completely ruin my plans for MMA world domination.”
I feel his chest shake with laughter.
We cross the street and are halfway to my house when he pauses in front of a coffee shop. “Should I grab us some coffee? I’m dying here. If I don’t get some before nine, I Hulk out.”
“Coffee sounds great.”
“Think they’ll care that I’m not wearing a shirt?”
I’m guessing the baristas will make heart eyes and drool all over themselves. “No. You’re probably fine.”
He maneuvers me to a bench in front of the shop, takes my drink order, and hands me the leash.
“Hey, man, be good,” he says, petting Chauncey, who grins back at him with his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
Josh turns away, and my eyes travel to his sculpted shoulders and then lower to his trim waist and perfect, muscular ass. Yeah, my tongue wants to loll out of my mouth too. Especially when images from his blog flash through my mind.
When he opens the door to enter the restaurant, three women decked out in neon spandex are on their way out. He holds the door open for them, and they give him flirty smiles and bat their eyelashes. Much to my delight, he only nods politely before he heads inside.
I shouldn’t care that he doesn’t spare a second glance at these beautiful women. I really shouldn’t.
But, of course, I’m secretly thrilled.
A wet nose nuzzles my palm, and I lean over to pet my dog, who wags his tail and looks longingly at the door.
“He’s coming back, goofball.”
Josh returns a few minutes later with two big cups of coffee and a bag of pastries. “I got us some snacks.”
Chauncey jumps around like a lunatic when he pets him. I want to flop on my back and have Josh rub my belly too, but that would be awkward.
We sip enough of our drinks so they don’t slosh out of the lids, and then he steadies me as I stand. By the time we get to my house, we’re laughing again as he helps me hop up my front walkway, which has several stone steps.
“I swear I’m much more graceful in the courtroom.”
He turns to me, a sudden serious expression on his face. “What I really want to know is if you can do that same swan dive in heels.”
I blow my bangs out of my face. “That’s a great question. Maybe you can help me train.”
“I’m world-renowned for my skills,” he says cheekily. “But I’m not sure you can afford me.”
“Don’t crush a girl’s dreams of mud-diving before she even gets started.”
“You’re right. Although… I think you might owe me after today.”
“You mean for the coffee and the clothes and the dog-walking assistance?” I ask as we reach my front door.
“No, that was all complimentary.”
“Like the peanuts on an airplane?”
“Exactly.”
“So you typically donate the shirt off your back to women in distress?”
“Absolutely. Without question.”
I smirk and shake my head.
Reaching out, he helps steady me and says, “The reason you owe me is because you stole my house.”
“Excuse me?” I cross my arms with a laugh.
“This house should’ve been mine. I made an offer, but some sneaky woman stole it from beneath me.”
A wide smile lifts his lips. God, he should model for a toothpaste company.
“Isn’t this bungalow beneath your pay grade, Mr. Cartwright?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. I don’t mean to call attention to his wealth because that’s crass.
“Actually,” he says, rubbing the stubble on his chin, “I rather enjoy living among the commoners.”
His face is totally serious. Until he winks.
“Oh, my God. You’re kidding. I was afraid you were a total asshole, and you’d just charmed the pants off me.”
His eyes drop to my legs, and that flirty smile returns. “Sadly, they’re still there.”
I desperately try to smother my grin. Could this guy be any hotter? Or cuter?
He’s definitely not acting like a guy who has a girlfriend. Maybe those gossip columns were right and he is single. Or a douchebag. Please don’t be a douchebag.
“Keys?” He holds his hands out, and I lean on the door frame to balance as I lift my leg and reach down with my other hand. “You keep your house keys on your shoelace?”
“I don’t have any pockets, so it’s convenient. I saw it on one of those life-hack videos on Facebook. Besides, it was either that or my cleavage.”
His eyes drop to my chest and then flick away as he laughs and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “Can’t say I store my keys there. Women get so many conveniences.”
I want to smack myself for bringing up boobs. “We are definitely the luckier sex.” I get the door unlocked, wondering what the hell I’m doing. I really shouldn’t ask him in. Except he did get us coffee and pastries and half-carry me down the street. Clearing my throat, I give him an awkward smile. “Want a refill on that coffee? I could make us another pot for the”—I take a quick peek in the bag with the food—“for the croissants you bought us.”
“We should take a look at your ankle. Get some ice for it.”
Five minutes later, he has me cleaned up and seated in my breakfast nook in the kitchen with my leg propped up.
I watch him wander around, grabbing a Ziploc bag and ice like he owns the place. Not that I mind.
Josh motions toward my leg. “Let’s put this on for fifteen minutes. There’s a lot of bruising and swelling, but your range of motion is decent, so I think it’s just a bad sprain.”
Nodding like a good patient, I follow his directions, icing my ankle, while he heats our pastries in the microwave. He shoots me one of those sexy smiles, and my insides feel warm and gooey, like he’s slowly melting me.
When he goes to put
away the ice tray, he picks up my cutting block, holds it up, and looks at me, waiting for me to say something.
It’s a huge maple board with the image of a rooster engraved on the front.
From the expression on his face, he gets the joke.
My lips twist as my face warms. This is embarrassing. “That was a gift from my best friend Kendall. It’s, um…”
“A cock block.” He chokes out a laugh, but then in mock seriousness says, “Who doesn’t love a good cock?”
“Exactly,” I say, internally dying. “What’s not to love about… roosters. They’re actually really pretty. I mean, sometimes. You know, the plumage.”
SHUT UP, EVIE. Can I hide under my table?
He laughs, and I wonder if we’re both thinking about the same thing—his blog.
But God, he’s gorgeous when he laughs. He’s sweet and thoughtful and sexy as sin.
If he is single, something has to be wrong with him. He’s too perfect on the outside. A killer smile. A dope career. A smoking hot body. An even better sense of humor.
That’s when I remember that he wanks it for thousands of women online.
I pause on that idea, feeling conflicted.
Which makes me feel like a judgmental bitch. Because really, what’s wrong with expressing yourself that way? Just because he posts online doesn’t mean he’s necessarily promiscuous. He certainly doesn’t have a reputation for being a playboy.
My palms start to sweat as I consider the question. Don’t ask it. Don’t. Ask. It.
“So, can I ask a personal question?” Holy crap. I’m asking it. “And you can totally tell me to mind my business.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “You know more about me right now than ninety-nine percent of the people in my life. Go for it.”
“Does your blog bother your girlfriend? Or are you really ‘Portland’s most eligible bachelor’?” I ask dramatically.
His lips twist in a grin. “I see you’ve Googled me.”
“Any good attorney would.”
“Touché.” Rubbing a palm over his stubble, he leans against the counter. “I suppose the blog might upset my girlfriend. If I had one.”
