by Tara Leigh
“I’m alive. And I don’t need you playing matchmaker. I do just fine on my own, I assure you.”
“Come on. There’s no need to spend your first night in the Hamptons alone.”
Christ. He’s not going to let it go.
In the past few years, most of my friends have coupled up. It feels like an infectious disease the way they’re all dropping like goddamn flies. But the worst part of it is that they’re always trying to set me up, especially lately. It’s been a while since I’ve had a serious girlfriend—okay, a long while—but I’m hardly a monk. And while I appreciate their concern, it’s unnecessary. I’m fine.
“Who said I’m alone?”
Tripp pauses, then gives a low whistle. “Shit, my bad. When can we meet her?”
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at it in frustration. I should have known my little ploy would barely slow him down. I peer around the side of the house, at the blackened branches. “She’s kind of a firecracker. Probably won’t last long.”
“At least I know it’s not Missy. I ran into her the other day, actually.”
“Here, in the Hamptons?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry, she’s already sunk her claws into someone else.”
“Give him my condolences.” My ex is a real piece of work, though at least she taught me an important lesson. Beware of money-hungry women—I’ll never be more than a walking, talking, fucking dollar sign.
Chapter 3
Vivienne
By the time I get to the top of the stairs, he’s back at the bottom.
Good. I have a job to do, and I don’t need the distraction. And this one is definitely a distraction. A Viking god dressed in dark jeans and a crisp cotton button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. He’d towered over me, and at nearly five-eight, I’m no shrinking violet. His shoulders alone had nearly blocked out the sun, turning the thick, dirty blond hair on his head into a burnished crown.
And his face isn’t any less arresting, unfortunately. Broad, high forehead. Elegant eyebrows curving over warm brown eyes the color of unhusked almonds. The blunt lines of his nose and cheekbones tapering to a full, unsmiling mouth.
Too attractive for his own good.
Or mine.
Not that I’m interested.
And the Viking certainly isn’t interested in me—not with the air of annoyance he’d worn like an iron breastplate. Maybe that’s why I’m not nervous to be alone with this stranger. His physical appearance is intimidating, but he’s not using his size to bully me. He’s too busy acting offended by my mere presence.
Well, two can play at that game.
I’m scrubbing down one of the bathrooms when the energy in the small space shifts, the way a barometer drops before a storm. Glancing behind me, I find his bulk taking up the entire doorway. “You’re still here?” The breathless tone to my voice is not from scrubbing the shower tiles, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
“I am.”
I meet his stubborn stare with one of my own. “If you need something to do, feel free to make yourself useful. This place doesn’t clean itself.”
Those deep umber eyes drop to my ass, currently on display since I’m on my hands and knees, my chest hovering over the edge of the tub. “I see that.”
Feeling the heat rising to my cheeks, the curse of being a redhead, I turn around. “There’s another bathroom just down the hall. Cleaning supplies are under the sink”
I hear him sigh. “You really don’t have anyone helping you?”
“Nope.”
His receding footsteps are proof that this current state of affairs is unlikely to change anytime soon. Which is fine. Cleaning bathrooms is hardly glamorous, but I don’t mind. For a few hours of elbow grease on Monday, I get to enjoy a sparkling beachfront mansion all to myself for the rest of the week.
What little free time I have, anyway. Once the house is restored to order, my weekdays are spent running from job to job, whatever—
I’m distracted from my thoughts when I hear water running in the hall bathroom, a cabinet door opening and closing. And then . . . the unmistakable wheeze of a Windex bottle, followed by the squeak of a paper towel wiping on glass.
Is the Viking really cleaning bathrooms in a share house?
After finishing with the tub, I make another trip downstairs to swap a load of laundry into the dryer, start another load, and carry a still-warm set of sheets back upstairs. The Viking—I wonder if I’ll actually learn his name—has moved on to another bathroom. I glance at my Fitbit. Richard bought it for me, and although I considered tossing it, I’ve become slightly obsessed with tracking my steps.
Maybe because it helps combat the feeling that I’m stuck in a rut, going nowhere.
Fifteen-thousand, four-hundred-and-thirty-six steps so far today.
I need to leave for work soon, but I’m not quite sure what to do about him.
I send a text to Seth explaining the situation. Then I finish making up the two double beds before leaving the room and heading toward the sound of running water.
I come to a stop outside the now sparkling master bathroom. I have to admit, the Viking’s bathroom-cleaning skills are damn impressive. Almost as impressive as his body. He’s bent over a soaking tub that overlooks the ocean, his powerful thighs clearly outlined in dark denim. He’s taken off his button-down shirt, and his biceps bulge from the short sleeves of a basic white tee.
A wave of heat rises up my chest. Jesus, is the air-conditioning working?
“Might as well grab a toilet brush and make yourself useful.”
My heartbeat stumbles, mortification flooding through me as he repeats the suggestion I gave to him just a few minutes ago. I grab for the can of Scrubbing Bubbles under the sink and lift the lid of the toilet. Not a smart move. I immediately drop it and flush, waiting until the water stops running to open it again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Whatever was in there wasn’t from me,” he deadpans.
I aim the spray at the bowl. “When guys are taught to pee standing up, what exactly are your instructions? Are you taught to aim into the water? Or is it more like, You know, son, there’s plenty of liquid in the bowl, your job is to get everything else wet.”
When he doesn’t answer, I look over my shoulder. He’s watching me with an amused, almost sardonic smirk on his face.
“I’m serious. Because, otherwise, I have to believe there is some magnetic force field that keeps male urine out of the bowl—like a missile shield system, but for pee.”
He bites his lip, and I turn back to the toilet, attacking it with the brush. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious your missiles make it in there just fine. You leave plenty of evidence behind.”
“Me?”
“Your se—gender.” I stop myself from saying the three-letter word it’s impossible not to think about when it comes to this buff stranger. The last thing I need to do is say it out loud.
“Well, I haven’t unzipped anything in this house yet, and I’d rather not answer for half the human race.”
I snort. “That’s a first.”
He turns on the water and begins spraying down the tub. “What is?”
“The first time I’ve asked a guy for his opinion, and he’s declined to give it.”
I finish cleaning the toilet about the same time as he finishes with the tub. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a habit of generalizing?”
“Nope. Another first,” I answer blithely, ignoring the twanging of the nerve he’s just hit. “Anyway, I need to get ready for work.”
“I thought this was your work.”
“Taking care of the house gives me a place to live, but it doesn’t pay my bills. Speaking of which, if you know of anyone needing summer help, I’m available for hire.” I throw out that last bit out of habit. It’s amazing how many jobs I’ve picked up through word of mouth rather than official postings. Occasionally, I get hired for things tailored to my skill set, like house stag
ing and retail merchandising. But I’m not picky—I walk dogs, run errands, babysit, waitress.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
His jaw clenches as he crosses his arms. “Exactly what kind of services are you offering?” There’s an edge of contempt to his tone, and I realize what he thinks I’m implying.
Not that desperate.
“The kind of services I do with my clothes on,” I snap.
His stare drags up and down my body, one eyebrow lifting in a silent reminder that my current outfit is a barely-there bikini.
I lift my chin defiantly. “Don’t you have to be going now?”
“Nope.”
“I’m not leaving you in the house alone.”
He ignores me. “Hey, are there any towels?”
“Why?”
“To dry off after my shower.”
I blink. “Now? Here?”
He looks around. “I did just clean it, so . . .”
“So . . . ” I mimic him. “I don’t even know you.”
“Knowing me wasn’t a factor when you asked me to scrub toilets.”
He has a point. I sigh. “Tell me the truth. Have you paid Seth or not?”
His answer is unhesitating. “Yes.”
“Fine.” It wouldn’t be the first time Seth forgot to tell me about a new share before they showed up with a weekender bag and a handle of Tito’s. I walk past him into the master bedroom where the towels I folded earlier in the day are arranged in stacks, waiting to be stored in the linen closet. I grab a bath sheet, hand towel, and wash cloth, and return to the bathroom, setting them beside the sink and regarding the Viking through the mirror. “You can shower. But if I haven’t heard from Seth by the time I have to leave for work, you’re leaving, too.”
Before he can reply, I head down to the bedroom I claimed at the start of the summer. Tucked between the kitchen and garage, and probably intended as a maid or au pair’s room, it barely fits a twin bed and single dresser, but I don’t mind. It’s cozy and has a gorgeous view of the beach.
A view I don’t even glance at because a more vivid image is taking shape in my mind. That beautiful brute of a man is probably naked right now, water droplets clinging to his broad frame and packed muscles, his—
Knock. It. Off.
But the thread of desire continues unspooling inside my belly. Unwanted desire . . . although the fact that it’s there at all is something of a relief.
Not a single man I’ve met this entire summer has elicited even a twinge of interest. Lately, I’ve started to wonder if Richard permanently killed my sex drive.
Nope. Definitely still alive and well.
Chapter 4
Lance
With most of my brain cells occupied thinking about the redhead—every inch of her—I forget to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk of my car before I get in the shower. But because my house has somehow become a weekend party palace, there are plenty of toiletries to choose from in the shower. I help myself to soap and shampoo, wrap a towel around my hips, and head back downstairs.
I’m walking toward the front door, key in hand, when the sound of shattering glass draws my attention to the kitchen. My real estate agent is standing in the middle of the room, looking at me as if he’s seen a ghost. “Mr. Welles,” he breathes, his voice a horrified whisper.
I want to wring his skinny neck. “Ah, Seth. Welcome to my home. Or should I say, your share house?”
He gulps at air. “This is all just a misunderstanding. I’ll take care of—”
I look around for any sign of Red. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“The girl you hired—”
“Oh, right. Uh, I think she’s in her room.” Without taking his eyes off me, he inclines his head to the right, and I notice a closed door.
“Her room? Does she know that she’s basically a squatter? That you’ve sold shares to a house you have no claim on?”
Seth’s face pales beneath his tan, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows. “I—I’m—”
“You’re a little fucking shit, is what you are.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll take care of everything, I promise.”
“I don’t want your promises. I want you to get in touch with every fucking share you conned. You will refund their money and find them alternative housing for the summer. They will not set foot inside my home again, do you hear me?”
“Of course, of course.” Seth’s eyes bulge as he nods his head. “I’ll just get—We’ll leave—”
I make a snap decision as Seth struggles for words. The redhead might be a squatter, but she’s spent the entire day cleaning my house. Yelled at me for leaving the door open with the air-conditioning on. Burned a fucking bush in my yard. Maybe she was exaggerating when she said she’d be homeless if she wasn’t living here, but I’m not going to kick her out just because Seth is a douchebag.
“She stays. Tell her you fucked up. You double-booked, renting this house to a client for the remainder of the summer. She can stay on and continue taking care of things through Labor Day.”
“You—You’re the client?”
I glare at the shit-for-brains quivering in my kitchen. “Yeah. I’m the client. And if you don’t want everyone from Manhattan to Montauk hearing about the scam you’re running, you’d better get the fuck out of here.”
He gives another shaky nod and takes a step toward the door. Glass crunches beneath his loafers, bare ankles peeking at me from beneath rolled khaki cuffs. “Uh, should I—” He looks down and then back up at me.
I should make Seth clean up his own goddamn mess, but if he stays in my house any longer, I’m liable to hurt him. Clenching my fists at my side, I jerk my chin at the door. “Just get the fuck out of here.”
I force myself to remain still until Seth is safely out of reach. I’m sweeping broken glass into a dustpan I found beneath the sink when I hear, “What are you doing?”
“I broke a glass.”
“And you decided to clean it up naked?”
I glance down, realizing that my towel has slipped off my waist. I’ve never been uncomfortable with my body, so I merely shrug and continue surveying the floor. A few missed shards glint at me from the tile, and I step to the side, intending to sweep them up before covering myself with the towel for the sake of modesty. Her modesty, anyway.
Unfortunately, I don’t notice the piece of glass that landed just a little farther than the rest—until it slides deep into my heel. I curse, more irritated than pained, before sweeping the remaining visible glass into the dustpan, dumping it into the garbage, and setting the pan on the counter. “Mind if I borrow a pair of tweezers?”
Chapter 5
Vivienne
My eyes rove over the stunning array of muscles that bunch and flex beneath the Viking’s tanned skin with each movement. Broad shoulders taper to slim hips, the muscular curves of his ass sitting just above strong thighs that are slightly lighter than the skin everywhere else. From where I’m standing, I can’t see between them. But if his dick is in proportion to the rest of him, I have no doubt it’s massive.
Naked, he could easily pass for a Greek god carved by a Renaissance sculptor.
Except for the tattoos. A line of numbers cut across his ribcage and around his left side. A lattice pattern wraps around his right biceps. And an intricate design of . . . something stretches across his back, from the base of his neck to just below his shoulder blades. I’d have to move closer for a better look. And I’m pretty sure that’s a bad idea. Whoever this Viking is, I should definitely keep my distance.
He turns, reaching for the garbage. My eyes drop of their own accord.
And I’m not prepared. At all.
Michelangelo never sculpted anything like what is between this man’s legs.
By the time his eyes meet mine, my mouth is dry, my lungs are empty, and my face is probably as red as my hair.
It’s only when I realize he’s looking at me expect
antly that I manage to say, “Huh?”
Nice, Vivienne. Very eloquent.
He glances down at the floor, and I do too, with only a brief detour—seriously, I can’t help it—and notice that his left foot is hovering just above the tile, a small red puddle forming below his heel. “I asked if I could borrow a pair of tweezers,” he repeats.
“Oh.” The pieces of the puzzle in front of me come together with an almost audible click in my mind. Kitchen. Dustpan. Glass. Foot. Blood. “Of course.”
I spin around and jog to my bathroom, grabbing my tweezers from a shelf in the medicine cabinet. When I return to the kitchen, his towel is wrapped around his hips and he’s sitting on the countertop. “Careful. I’m not sure I got it all.”
I gesture at the flip-flops I’m now wearing. “Unlike you, I know better than to walk barefoot around broken glass.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You’re welcome. And here’s another—I’m pretty sure I’m better with my tweezers than you are, so let me see.”
He looks me over. “You know, if you were wearing a sexy nurse costume this would be much more enjoyable.”
I roll my eyes even as a kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight inside my stomach, swooping and whirling, making me tingle from the inside out. Is the Viking flirting with me? “Sorry. It’s at the dry cleaners, along with my sexy maid costume. You know, those services are extremely popular.”
His deep, throaty chuckle reverberates inside my ears, a seductive thrum that sends ripples of desire through my body.
I catch his ankle with my left hand, holding the tweezers with my right. A thick piece of glass protrudes from the center of his heel. Bending over his foot, I’m not immune to the awkwardness and intimacy of this moment. I don’t even know his name yet.
“Hold still,” I warn.
He doesn’t move or even grunt. The jagged shard is longer than I expect it to be, and blood spills from the cut as soon as I remove it. “I think you might need stitches.”
