by Vonnie Davis
He was strongly attracted to the beautiful Becca Sinclair. Maybe it was time to evaluate the weight of his interest in her against the weight of his resentment of reporters.
Bitterness never kept a man warm at night or heated him to distraction during the day. He drained his cup and stood, rinsing it out at the sink before adding it to a full load of dirty dishes and pressing the start button.
Laughter from the TV area drew his attention. “Wolf! Wolf, come here, you gotta read this blog.” Greg motioned him over.
“Didn’t know you were into reading blogs.” He approached the sofa, where Greg and Quinn were huddled over a laptop.
“The wife reads it every day. She got me turned on to it. Listen to this…” Greg chuckled and wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “‘My new neighbor is a man-whore.’ God, this Becca woman’s got his number. Listen to her rip into him…”
Becca? He leaned across the back of the sofa to read over Greg’s shoulder. Christ Almighty, she’s blogging about me. He scanned the blog, laughing out loud at some places. She thought his sister and sister-in-law were his fuck-buddies. Oh, darlin’, have you got a lot to learn about me!
Wolf returned to the kitchen, still shaking his head and laughing. Tonight was his night to cook for the guys. He stepped to the refrigerator and pulled out the ingredients for meatloaf. Maybe food preparation would take his mind off a certain man-shy blogger. He chopped onions and green peppers, his knife a flurry of smooth movement while he recalled thinking of her through the night, reliving the explosive kiss they’d shared. The woman was pure sensual voodoo—the magic of her hazel eyes, her silky skin and soft lips. He hardened at the memory of an aroused Becca in his arms, moaning, responding. Dammit. Maybe she’s right, I am a man-whore. At least where she’s concerned.
Wolf fisted the mixture a couple times and began shaping the two large loaves. He squeezed the contents of a bottle of ketchup over them and slid the large pan into the oven. The station’s siren blared and the captain’s voice boomed over the intercom with the address of the blaze, sending the firemen into a flurry of organized and automatic activity. Wolf set the timer for the oven’s start and stop times before rushing to join the men in the equipment room.
Chapter 5
His two twenty-four-hour shifts behind him, Wolf stood on a ladder, hanging his second string of Christmas lights along his roofline when a rice burner droned down his street and eased to the curb in front of his section of townhouses. No one he knew drove a crotch bike, so he glanced over his shoulder and snorted. What man in his right mind would ride a hot-pink crotch rocket? When the rider tugged off the matching pink helmet, long auburn curls tumbled halfway down her back.
Becca.
Becca…on a motorcycle…in tight holy-hell-look-at-that-ass black-leather pants.
Every drop of blood in his body did a freefall to his groin. Fantasies of Becca strutted across his now-empty brain in those black over-the-knee fuck-me boots she also wore. One image had her pressing a stiletto between his pecs. The heel of his hand rubbed his chest in reaction to the sexual vision. Damn, he was lightheaded. When she leaned over, her most excellent ass toward him, as she pushed the wrinkles out of her leathers, he pivoted on the ladder to get a better look. Holy Mother of God.
She tucked her helmet under her arm and sashayed up the sidewalk. If she knew he was there, gaping at her, she gave no indication. He leaned out farther to gawk a little longer. How many cows had to die to cover those fine long legs of hers?
Her door opened and a canine “welcome home” barking greeted her.
“Einstein, baby, did you miss Mommy?”
The dog shot out of the door and streaked toward Wolf’s ladder at ninety miles an hour.
“No! No, Einstein.” She ran after him.
The ladder teetered when it took the brunt of the strong canine’s weight. Wolf grasped for purchase on the top rung, but the backward momentum of the ladder had already started. He wasn’t afraid of falling. As a SEAL, he’d done his fair share from aircraft, cliffs and stairways. He prepared to tuck and roll. On impact, he exhaled and relaxed to reduce injuries.
His ladder clattered to the ground beside him. Einstein dropped something and then barked as he circled Wolf. In his excitement, the dog lifted his leg against the top of the aluminum ladder. Wolf rolled to a dry spot and met a pair of black-heeled boots.
“You okay?” His sexual fantasy inquired as she stooped next to him. She was out of breath, as if she’d run.
“Yeah.”
She trailed fingertips down his neck and he all but groaned in delight. “No broken bones?”
He shook his head. Just a hard-on that hurts like hell.
From behind her ear, she plucked a pen and poised it above a small notebook. “Tell me, Mr. Wolford, how did you feel when your arrogant ass hit the ground?” Her one finely plucked eyebrow arched in question.
He couldn’t make up his mind if he was hellishly annoyed or amused. Since his cock was the only part of his body thinking right now, he’d have to let it decide. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
She faked a cheesy smile. “Well, you know how we reporters are. Always out for blood. Eager, well, beyond eager really, to interview people at their worst moments.” Her gaze swept their side of the street and she leaned in, her get-your-sex-here perfume revving his senses. “With you, I bet there are a lot of crappy moments, aren’t there?”
Oh, so she wanted to play, did she? Game on. His hand snaked out and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her to him. His lips captured hers and he rolled to tuck her beneath his body. One touch of her soft lips and he was racing to dive off the cliff of sexual insanity. He wanted this woman more than his next breath. Hell, her sexual pull was more magnetic than his power to resist. He bit her lower lip and then soothed it with his tongue. A soft moan escaped her, further ensnaring him in her essence. When her hands moved across his shoulders, his slid down to her leather-encased ass and cupped a luscious curve. Damn, he couldn’t get enough of her taste, of her smell, of the feel of her.
“What in H-E-double toothpicks are you two doing out here? Get a room, for heaven’s sake.”
Wolf released the finest pair of lips he’d ever tasted and glared over his shoulder at Mrs. Minelli before rolling off Becca. He slung an arm over his eyes and raised one knee to hide his erection. Damn.
“We just don’t allow such lustful behavior in our development.” The elderly woman pressed a wrinkled hand to her bony chest, her eyes widened in horror. “There are children in our neighborhood.” Her jolly red sweatshirt read “Meet me under the mistletoe.”
Becca stood and aimed an angry glare at him. “I want you to stay away from me, do you understand?” She turned to the elderly woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Minelli. It won’t happen again.”
She snapped her fingers for Einstein, who followed her inside. The door slammed behind them.
“Young man, come here.” Mrs. Minelli crooked a finger as she leaned on her cane.
He rubbed his hands over his face and stood. Being chastised was the last thing he wanted. What he really needed was to sink balls-deep into one beautiful, high-handed reporter. “Yes?”
“Women need romance, not manhandling.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t—”
Her cool hand, peppered with age spots, rested on his forearm. “Maybe not in your mind but, believe me, that’s how she saw it. It was evident in her eyes when she looked at you. Flowers. Candlelight and wine. Poetry you’ve written. Or a chick flick. These are the way to a woman’s heart.” She patted his arm and tottered down the walk. Her cane waved over her white head. “If you need more love advice, you know where I live.”
Freakin’ hell. Now I’ve got an octogenarian giving me romance tips.
He returned to the shrubbery in front of his townhouse to untangle the Christmas lights from his ladder. Something purple caught his eye and he remembered Einstein dropping an object. He scooped it from the grass. A purple
lace thong. A vision of Becca wearing it with her long legs wrapped around his waist dashed from his mind to his cock. And I’ve got a damned dog luring me into his mistress’ panties.
****
Michael Bublé crooned Christmas music from the stereo while Becca sat at her desk. The empty blog template on her computer screen begged for words. She glanced at the clock and moaned. She’d been sitting there for twenty minutes, staring at her monitor, while her mind replayed every second of her interaction with Wolf in his front yard earlier. What was it about him? The way he looked? Which was damn sexy. The way he talked to her? Which alternated between annoying and—she sighed—damn sexy. She didn’t want to think about the way he kissed or the magical things his tongue did to her mouth—even though she could barely think of anything else. Girl, you need to get a grip.
Enough day-dreaming and mooning over a man. Hadn’t they all brought pain to her life in one form or another? First her dad walked out on her and her mom when things got bad, then Tommy Ray. Things hadn’t been always bad between them, though. Not like it had been for her parents. Both of them had good jobs and were healthy and active. But Tommy Ray had gone searching online. For what, she wasn’t sure. Neither was he, or so he claimed. “It just happened,” he’d stated over and over—and with no remorse whatsoever.
“Men,” she growled.
Einstein opened his eyes, yawned and licked his balls.
“Lucky you. You get to do what every man wishes he could.” She sipped her lukewarm hot chocolate and winced. “By the way, mutt-meister, you better leave my thongs alone.” Einstein stopped licking and raised his head. “I mean it. Stay out of my underwear drawer. Just my luck that I get a dog who teaches himself to open drawers. There are teeth marks around my dresser handles.” The dog whined and went back to loving his testicles.
She returned her attention to her blog. What could she title her post to snag her audience’s attention? Her fingers commenced typing: Man-whore Has A Name.
Okay, now what should his moniker be? She didn’t want to use his real name. For all his rude and pawing nature, she’d never disclose Wolf’s true identity. She opened her post with a paragraph telling how her dog had broken loose from her grasp to introduce himself to her new neighbor. A slow smile spread and she chuckled. She knew just the name.
Man-whore extended his hand, his gaze roaming my tight, sweaty running clothes. “Hello, my name is Dan Bullass. Folks just call me Bull.” He favored me with his smarmy smile. Personally, I assumed most people would have gone with the last part of his name but, hey, that’s just me.
Bull pushed up the sleeve of his yellow T-shirt—the front emblazoned with “I’m too sexy for this shirt”—to show me his tattoo. I’m telling you, ladies, you’d have rolled your eyes. A charging bull with red smoke coming from its nostrils, and every time man-whore flexed his impressive bicep, the bull’s hind legs kicked out. It was a sight to behold, believe me.
Becca covered her mouth with her hands and chuckled at her work of fiction. She’d never done this before. Her blogs were usually a factual slice of her life. Never made up or a blatant exaggeration. She read over it again and nodded. Now what?
Bull walked Einstein and me to our door. “I’m having a party tonight. I’m celebrating the best day in the history of womankind.” He leaned in and lowered his voice in a practiced sensual manner. “My birthday.”
Then he had the audacity to wink at me. Did I go to his party? Yes, I did. And I’ll be blogging about that tomorrow.
Great ending hook, Becca old girl. She added clip art of a bull pawing the earth and pressed the Publish button. She stood, stretched and glanced out of her window. Wolf had an air compressor running, inflating three large angels in his front yard. Evidently he wanted to decorate outside before his family came over for hot chocolate and cookies prior to their singing carols tonight.
Why angels? She scoffed. The man might be a lot of things, but prone to angelic behavior he wasn’t.
She headed for the kitchen. Maybe she’d make a taco salad for dinner and eat it out on her back patio. Or she could see if his invitation to join his family tonight still stood. No, that would be a bad idea. Hadn’t she just told him to leave her alone? Einstein started barking and scrambled for the front door as the bell rang. She pivoted, hurrying through the hallway to see who was there. A young man stood on her porch holding a floral arrangement of red and white carnations accented with sprigs of pine. Three plastic angels on sticks were positioned throughout the flowers.
“Ms. Sinclair?”
“Yes.”
He extended the arrangement to her. “Happy Holidays.” When he stepped off her porch and headed back to the blue delivery van, he saluted Wolf. And darn if her neighbor didn’t salute him in return. What was that about?
She closed the door, set the flowers on her desk and removed the little card from the envelope. “‘For the prettiest woman on Seashell Lane. W.’ Who the heck is ‘W’?” She glanced out of her bay window to Wolf’s front yard and the three angels decorating it. “Oh, surely not.”
Her fingertips trailed over the spicy, fragrant blooms as she struggled to accept the implications of Wolf’s message on the card. Was this an attempt at flirting? She wasn’t ready for another man in her life, no matter how he made her insides tremble with a look or a smile or a kiss. This past year had been twelve painful months of gaining her bearings. No, she still had some healing to do before she opened her heart to a man. Plus, she had to get through the holidays without dwelling on how horrendous they were last year.
Twenty-thirteen had nearly destroyed her.
Perhaps it had.
The giggling Becca her friends all loved had been replaced by a crabby, cynical, complaining woman. At the top of her New Year’s resolution list was “find giggling Becca.”
Maybe by next October she would.
Chapter 6
Becca had been in an aggravated mood all day, her mood darkening by the minute, like an impending hurricane blowing in from the Gulf. Wolf had her emotions on a continual swirl as he slowly drove her to madness. Every time she turned around, he was leaving her presents—and she didn’t like it. How could she keep the perpetual scowl on her face if he kept charming her?
The day after she received the flowers, he’d pinned a Christmas stocking on the pine wreath hanging on her front door. Tucked inside the stocking were four pairs of red and green holiday-themed thongs and Godiva chocolates. The dickwad.
The next morning a box of cream-filled donuts sat at the top of her porch steps, waiting for her sweet tooth—and just how did he know they were her favorite? He’d scrawled across the top of the container “These aren’t nearly as sweet as your kisses.” The man must have thought her a sentimental fool if he expected her to fall for that sad line. She’d have kicked them to the curb if they hadn’t been from her favorite bakery.
A bag of doggie treats and a toy for Einstein hung on her doorknob the next day—a dirty trick if you asked her, using her dog to get in her good graces.
This morning, a goofy card was taped to her front door asking her to dinner and a movie tonight. Wolf seemed determined to win her approval, but why, when he’d made no secret of his dislike of reporters?
In contrast, she shouldered a strong case of blame for mislabeling him as a man-whore on her blog. She grimaced. How was she to know all the women going in and out of his house were his sisters and sister-in-law? No doubt she should have clarified things in a post, but with her readership growing because of her popular rants about him, she continued the pretense. Her culpability was somewhat assuaged by calling him Bull instead of Wolf, thereby keeping his true identity a secret. As a writer, she could create humorous, snarky fantasy out of almost every movement Wolf made—and didn’t women like fantasy?
She snatched several bags of toys off the passenger seat of her car, turned toward the sidewalks leading to the townhouses and groaned.
Evidently Wolf hadn’t worked today for he’d added
another blown-up decoration to his ever-growing menagerie of inflatable lawn ornaments. His front yard was a mishmash of cheap holiday embellishments. Where had this nutso found the room? She eyed his newest addition and gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached.
Someone please tell me what an air-filled heart held by a bear has to do with Christmas?
Weren’t the three angels singing the same chorus over and over sufficient for yard decorations? Or the two deer with their heads bobbing out of beat with said angel music? Or the eight-foot-tall snowman waving next to the six-foot Santa. Wasn’t that enough?
Her gaze slid to the green, blow-up, evil-looking Grinch with eyes that glowed yellow in the night. Jammed beside it, Santa wore shades and rode a motorcycle. She sneered. A Harley, no less. Animated elves worked at a toy bench and a pack of blown-up wolves ran between his and her sidewalks. Inflatable candy canes and round ornaments the size of basketballs hung from his porch roof. Dozens of strands of lights were strung around every porch pillar and window and across his part of the roof to highlight Santa in his sleigh pulled by eight reindeer.
What a hideous mayhem of decorations.
Thank goodness only eighteen days remained in December.
She carried the presents she’d bought for the Fireman’s Toy Ride inside and removed them from the bags. On her dining-room table she placed an assortment of newborn and Barbie dolls, several jewelry-making kits, action figures, books, art sets and heaps of little cars and trucks. She’d wrap them this evening while she made cookies—and live off soup and tinned tuna for the next month or so to pay for the gifts.
After taking Einstein for a quick walk in the backyard, Becca hurried outside to tackle the large box in her trunk. The salesman at the hardware store had groaned and grunted when he’d loaded the carton containing the six-foot-high wooden bookshelves into her car. Seeing him struggle with it worried her. Frankly, she hadn’t given any thought to how heavy the box would be for her to drag it inside.
