“What happened?” she asked as he walked toward the building.
“Dog.” He hated lying to her, but he guessed she wouldn’t get much more sleep tonight if she knew he’d run after a dark figure into the woods. Again his anger surged, but he held himself in check, not wanting to worry her.
“Told you that you were overreacting.” She laughed, at his expense he guessed, but it was good to see her relaxed, so he let it go. Upstairs, she let him in, then flipped the lock. “I guess I should get to bed. Sorry I crashed on you.”
He wondered if she knew she had literally crashed on him, and decided to let that go, too.
“You snore,” he told her instead.
Her mouth dropped open. “I do not.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. It helped me stay awake.”
“To protect me from the big, scary dog?” She arched an eyebrow in that cute smartass expression she’d perfected.
“Yeah.”
He removed the space between them, drawn to her by some unseen force. A force that had no business radiating between the two of them. Especially since he had no business hitting on a woman who trusted him to keep her safe. He wouldn’t take advantage of staying here with her. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he found himself grasping the blanket around her shoulders and pulling it tightly around her.
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice low. That sweet, floral smell lifted off her skin again.
Her eyes left his to study a spot on the floor. He heard her swallow in the quiet air between them. “I really wanted to succeed at being on my own. I need to be on my own. I relied on Michael for way too long. And after, I relied on my mother. Started feeling like a kid again, you know?”
He didn’t know, but he dipped his chin in agreement anyway.
“It’s important for me to rely on myself.” She lifted her eyes and met his again. The expanse of those navy blues broke his heart in two. She didn’t need to be strong for him.
“This isn’t a toughness contest, Faith. I came here because you need someone here. When the danger’s gone, so am I.”
It was a good reminder for both of them. One night on her sofa, and he had already decided time in her company was a hell of a lot better than the terrible visions attacking him on his recliner at home. The warmth of her homey space much more welcoming than his blanched walls and sparse, impersonal furnishings. She took hold of the blanket and he moved his fingers away, brushing her hand as he did.
“Go to bed, Cupcake. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Her eyes turned up to him, but she didn’t speak. She simply nodded, then walked down the short hallway into her bedroom and closed the door.
CHAPTER 5
Since it had long ago been determined that Faith couldn’t cook, she picked up takeout from the local Italian restaurant the next evening. The smell of buttered garlic bread, fettuccine Alfredo, and spaghetti Bolognese drifted from the bag as she unloaded each container and placed it on the counter.
Connor had followed her to the restaurant, like he followed her everywhere, save for the hours she spent in the mansion working with Sofie. Despite only finding a dog outside last night, he seemed extra worried about her. And while yes, she would like to foster her independent streak, she wasn’t staying here by herself when it was so easy to gain entry to her place.
Upon entering her apartment tonight, the first thing he had done was go out to her balcony and replace the bulb, then lecture her on the safety of having a working light. Now he was paying a visit to her neighbors, asking if they’d seen or heard anything suspicious in the last few days.
As she pulled plates from the cabinet and began arranging their food, she thought back to last night. He had not only been protective, but he’d also been funny, flirty, and almost—dare she say it?—sweet. In the morning when she woke, she’d been acutely aware of a man wandering around her house outside her bedroom door. She heard him clattering around in the kitchen, listened as the shower stopped and started. Part of her wanted to poke her head out after the water shut off just to see what he looked like fresh out of the steam. Instead, she lay in bed, covers pulled up to her neck, and waited until she was sure he was completely clothed before she left her room.
She heard a key in the door, and a moment later he walked in, yanked the key out of the lock, and dropped it in his pocket. The sound of him letting himself in, the idea that he was already at home and familiar to her, was both heady and terrifying. Heady, because they fit in the same space easily. Terrifying because…well, for the same exact reason.
“So?” she asked, sliding a bowl brimming with dressed salad to the center of the table.
He shook his head.
That’s what she thought. If her upstairs neighbor, Al, or her neighbor, Phyllis, had been home, she doubted—unless their hearing aids were turned up to ten—they’d heard a thing aside from the game shows blaring from their televisions.
“You said the guy downstairs worked nights?”
She shrugged as she put the Alfredo and the Bolognese on the table. “I’m guessing. I’ve never met him before. He leaves at dark and comes home in the daylight.”
Connor frowned. Whatever thought he was turning over in his head, he didn’t share it with her. He pulled out a chair for himself and sat while she poured herself a glass of wine. “I have water and Diet Coke.”
He made a face. “Diet Coke? Shit’ll kill you.” Lifting his chin in the direction of her wine, he asked, “Can I taste?”
“Oh. Of course.” She handed over the glass.
Then she stared.
There was something about the way his large, work-worn hands looked grasping her delicate crystal. Something about the way he tipped the glass, pursed his lips, and drank a bit of the liquid down. When his tongue darted out to catch a stray drop of red, her head got light.
Right. Breathing is good.
He handed over her glass, a certain knowing smirk sitting on his lips. She was so totally busted. With a grin, he said, “I’ll have some.”
“Well, well. Look who likes wine after all.”
She tried to play cool with her thoughts dancing around the idea of sipping from the side he sipped on. At the cabinet, she retrieved a second glass, poured his wine, and sat down to their dinner. Suddenly, things were intimate. She should’ve put on some music or something to cut the silence.
“Um. Dig in,” she said, clearing her throat.
Connor reached for one kind of pasta, then the other, dumping a gratuitous amount of each onto his plate. Watching him dig in with gusto made her wonder if he dug into life in a similar fashion. What was she thinking? Of course he did. He’d dug his heels in right here in her apartment.
When he bypassed the salad, she couldn’t resist giving him a hard time.
“Come on, plant man, eat your veggies.” She filled a smaller plate with greens.
“Salad is my dessert.” His brow lifted in challenge.
She stabbed a few pieces of lettuce with her fork. “Salad is not an acceptable dessert. Devil Dogs on the other hand…”
He shoved a meatball in his mouth in one huge bite. After he had chewed it down to a reasonable size, he spoke out of one side of his mouth. “Yeah, I know how you feel about dessert, Cupcake.” He licked his lips and winked, and for a second their little dinner felt a whole lot like a date.
She snuggled in, liking sharing dinner with someone other than her mother—who normally ate not much more than the olive Faith was chasing around her plate now. If he was going to be here, she may as well enjoy the banter.
“How did the Harvest Fest setup go? Sofie said Mrs. Anderson is being a pill.”
“You mean being herself,” he said with a grunt, winding pasta around his fork. “It’s good. Straw, pumpkins. Scarecrows. That haunted house she insists on setting up every year.”
“The one where she dresses the skeleton in pink.” She wrinkled her nose. So silly. And not scary at all.
In a loo
k of equal befuddlement, he scrunched his brows. “Why does she do that?”
“No one knows.” She started in on her pasta. “You need to get us your invoice so we can pay you.”
“I’ll get it to you.”
He would, but it always came months after he’d completed the work. She guessed the paperwork part of his business was his least favorite. Connor wasn’t the pencil-pusher type.
“I can dummy one up for you if you tell me what you charge,” she said. “I brought a stack of bills and invoices home with me to work on anyway.”
Lifting his wineglass—which again she thought of as sexy in his manly grip—he ran his tongue over his teeth before taking a drink.
“I’ll get it, Cupcake. But thanks.”
She cut her noodles. He scoffed.
“Wind. Don’t chop.” He demonstrated spinning the noodles on his fork.
“I can’t take a bite that big. I’ll get sauce on my chin.”
He grinned. A flash of straight teeth against suntanned skin.
“I’ll help clean you up, Cupcake.”
She jerked her gaze to the salt and pepper shakers between them, her face heating. He went back to eating, comfortable to let her stew in the gathering sexual tension. Faith drummed her fingernails on her wineglass, wishing she could think of a subject change.
Her mind was a void.
Giving up, she put down the glass and finished eating. After he appeared done, sitting back in his seat and stretching his palms over his taut, flat stomach, she stood and reached for his plate.
His hand wrapped around her wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up.” She felt her eyebrows rise.
“She who makes the dinner does not clean up the dinner.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but when I went into Viva Italy, it was to pick up this lovely meal you just enjoyed. I didn’t make any of it.”
The warmth looping her wrist remained even after he let her go.
“You know what I mean.” He took her plate and stacked his on top.
She watched in wonder as he tracked to the sink. “You’re going to do dishes?”
“Yeah. And you’re gonna do your homework.”
Faith sent a frown over at her laptop bag. She didn’t mind bringing work home with her, and really, wouldn’t have minded doing his invoice for him—if he let her—but it would be challenging to work with company. Especially company like him…
She slid a gaze over at the very well-built man who looked as if he should be stacking logs against a cabin in the woods, not squirting dishwashing liquid into her stainless steel sink.
Her eyes trailed over his big arms. Well. He was distracting, to say the least. She wasn’t sure if she could concentrate with him here.
Apparently she didn’t have a choice.
During the years she and Michael lived together he never washed a dish. Sure, he might rinse out his coffee mug in the morning, or dump food into the disposal, but mostly he’d left every plate, bowl, spoon, and cup in the sink, crusted with whatever food item was on it previously.
She carried over the salad bowl, disposing of the leftover lettuce, and handed it to Connor who sloshed his hands into several inches of soapy water. He took the bowl, water dripping onto her arm during the transfer.
“No helping, Cupcake. Not a mess I can’t handle.” He grinned again.
She’d bet there weren’t a lot of messes he couldn’t handle. Her eyes went to masculine hands sliding in the bubbles as he scrubbed, her pulse thrumming against her neck. Gosh, he made it hard for her to think. How could he stand there, looking all domestic-like? The man was a completely hot, totally built military guy taking up space in her tiny galley kitchen. His standing on a pink rug and scrubbing her delicate dishware was in total opposition of who he was.
She licked her lips, debating whether she should ask or not. Then she blurted, “Can I ask you something?”
Not turning in her direction, he scrubbed, not the least bit worried. “Go.”
“How long are we going to do this?”
He sent her a sideways glance, his scrubbing interrupted for a quick beat before he started in again. “You mean me follow you around, watch over you every night?”
“Yeah. Don’t you have something to do? Wouldn’t you like to sleep?”
“I sleep.” He rinsed a plate and rested it in her wooden dish drainer. “A little.”
“I mean in a bed.” She couldn’t imagine trying to sleep in a strange place. She’d only been in her apartment a little while, but at least she was in her own bed, surrounded by her own things. “My couch is passable, but it’s not as nice as a mattress.”
“Surprised you’d offer, but I accept. I’ll sleep in your bed. Safer for you if I stay close.”
For a second, she wasn’t sure if he was kidding. Then she spotted that twinkle in his eye, drew her hand back, and swatted him in the arm. “That’s not what I meant!”
“Be clearer when you speak, Cupcake.” His low laughter that did funny things to her stomach.
“You know what? You make creating a spreadsheet and answering fifty e-mails sound appealing.”
“Never know,” his low voice rumbled as he dried a dish and put it into the cabinet in front of him. “You might like sharing your bed with me.”
He held her eyes for a second or two…maybe three, as her heart pounded relentlessly against her ribs. As she considered what that very scenario might look like. As she imagined the feel of his roughened hands on her subtle curves. Just as her mouth went dry and her mind fuzzy, Connor looked away.
“On the other hand, your snoring would keep me awake, so I wouldn’t get much sleep anyway.”
She let out a grunt of disapproval, restating how she’d be working at the kitchen table if he needed her, but on the inside, she was giving a lecture to her hormones, which had all lined up for a turn to gawk at the man in her kitchen.
Shaking her head, she punched her password into her laptop, determined to forget that last conversation. She peeked at him one final time and he winked.
He frustrated her in every way.
Sexually, most of all.
* * *
Connor finished the dishes while Faith tapped away on her keyboard. Tonight, he would pay her nocturnal downstairs neighbor a visit.
She said the guy drove a blue car. That’s it. A blue car. When Connor asked what kind of car, she’d said, “I don’t know. The kind with doors. And wheels.” When he sarcastically asked if it had a windshield she’d replied, straight-faced, “Front and back.”
God, she was cute. Made him smile.
After he cleaned the kitchen, he walked over to the table where she was sitting and leaned both fists on the surface. “I’m going to ask Donny if Gertie can come stay with you.”
Donovan and Sofie’s very big Saint Bernard mix would sooner chew her own paw off than attack anyone. But a nice loud bark might be enough to deter anyone wanting to get inside.
“Hmm?” It took her a second to come out of her concentration. She leveled him with a gaze before blinking up at him. So freaking cute.
“Having a dog at your place would alert you to an intruder before you and I ever hear a thing.”
“No dogs allowed.” Her long hair brushed her arms and the laptop keyboard as she shook her head.
“And? The important thing is that you are safe. I’ll talk to your landlord if it comes to that.”
“I am safe. I have you.” She smiled up at him prettily.
Ah, hell. That got him. Dead center in the chest.
“Besides,” she said, eyes going back to her screen, “Sofie would never give Gert up. That dog is her baby.”
Well. He’d see about that.
“I’m going to talk to your neighbor. See if he heard anything.” A small fib. He wanted to see if the guy downstairs was the guy he spotted in the grass.
Her brows lifted. “Okay.”
“I’m just downstairs. Gonna watch the house from my tr
uck for a bit, but I’m not taking my eyes off you.” It was important she understood he wasn’t running out on her after vowing to protect her. But it was hard to watch for anyone suspicious from behind these four walls. “If you need me, call my cell. I’ll come back up right away.”
She touched him, just a light graze of her fingertips, and his entire body ignited under that soft press. If he ever had her in his arms, they’d be nuclear. He just knew it.
“I’m not worried.” She pulled her hand away and that radiating heat receded. “Not with you around.”
Damn if she didn’t make him feel ten feet tall. He straightened away from her, slid his keys off the edge of the counter, and walked outside. Before he pulled the door to, he poked his head back in and said, “Lock this.”
“The deadbolt, too?” She rose and came to the door.
They shared a heated, lingering look that made him not want to leave. “Deadbolt, too.”
* * *
After a conversation with Faith’s downstairs neighbor, Connor determined that the overweight manager of a local Kentucky Fried Chicken, who was likely in his mid-fifties, had not scaled the side of the building, hurdled the balcony wall, and jimmied the lock on the patio door.
Knowing it wasn’t that guy didn’t make Connor feel much better since he still didn’t know who was trying to get into her house.
After watching the lot for a few hours and seeing nothing suspicious, he’d come back to the apartment and crashed on her couch until sunup. He was awake first, pouring coffee into his go-cup. Faith shuffled into the kitchen, looking incredible, as usual. Even in the morning. That was something.
“I need you to pack a bag, Cupcake.”
She poured a cup of coffee for herself and asked around a yawn, “Why?”
“Because it’s Friday and I have somewhere I gotta be.” He didn’t miss his Fridays with Jonas. “You’ll be safe at my place.”
“You want me to stay at your place?”
“I want you safe. My place is safe.” He screwed the lid on his cup and gestured for her to hurry. “Cupcake. Bag.”
A Bad Boy for Christmas Page 5
