And for some godforsaken reason, I hear a different voice calling me “honey”. It was a throwaway term, something thrown out because of habit, the way some guys do.
But the way he growled that term, honey—it shook something inside me.
Made me hear it the way my Ollie would murmur it when he came, but now it’s a different voice. A new voice. Calling me honey while he comes. And that sends spears of guilt slicing through me, cutting me to ribbons all over again.
I sob on the floor, sob till I shake, till I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, and I could vomit from the shaking and the sobbing and the lack of oxygen.
Pep finds me. Curls up in front of my face, sitting like a sphinx directly in front of my eyes, and he boops my nose with his little paw.
Somehow, that comforts me.
I pull Pep to my chest and hold him there until I can breathe again.
I think I fall asleep on the floor, because that’s where I wake up, on the floor outside my bathroom.
It’s early morning. There’s bright sunlight bathing the hallway.
I stumble to my feet and into the kitchen, start some coffee—at least I have coffee, and thank god for that. While the coffee maker burbles and glugs, I drink several cups of water from the sink, to slake the demonic thirst of my cheap-wine-hangover.
My kitchen sink has a window over it, which faces the road, and my driveway. I can see anyone coming for a good mile. And if they pass the Jensens’ driveway, they’re coming here because I’m at the end of the road, with nothing beyond me but grass.
Dust is being kicked around, way up the road. It’s been dry as hell lately, so the road has been churned into powdery dust, which means I can’t make out the approaching vehicle until it’s past the Jensens’.
It’s my truck.
What the hell?
Like the sleepy, hungover idiot I am, I stand at my kitchen sink, cup of water in hand, watching my truck approach. I watch as it parks in my driveway, right in front of the slab of concrete that passes for my front porch. And I watch the blond god who rescued me from the intersection unfold his tall frame. That beast of a dog is in the passenger seat of my truck.
Once again…what the hell?
I watch him approach my front door.
God, he’s handsome.
I mean, he’s scruffy, unkempt, and wild looking. But he’s clean. He’s ripped. And his eyes are arresting, blue-green like the deepest sea.
He knocks on my door, and it takes me a few seconds to realize that yes, I do have to answer the door.
I move to the front door and pull it open. There’s a screen door, which I don’t open, yet.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
His eyes widen, and his gaze slowly, deliberately rakes down my body. I’ve never been looked at that way in my entire life, as if I’m something delicious to eat and he’s starving. He doesn’t just look at me, doesn’t just check me out.
He scours every inch of my body with his gaze, from toes to hair, up and down. Twice.
He drinks me in, as if he’s never seen anything like me in his life. His chest rises and falls, and his fingers tighten into fists at his sides. His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. I swear the zipper of his faded blue jeans tightens.
And yeah, I’m checking him out too.
But the way he’s looking at me, it’s…intoxicating. Bizarre, but wild and heated and ravenous.
And that is when I realize what I’m wearing.
Or…not wearing.
I’m in a T-shirt, and that’s it. And by T-shirt, I don’t mean Ollie’s big old UCLA shirt. It’s one of mine, and it’s old, so it doesn’t quite fit me. I never wear it except to bed.
It doesn’t quite cover my ass, and it’s super tight around my chest.
No bra.
No panties.
Just the T-shirt.
I don’t remember undressing, don’t remember putting on this T-shirt. I remember watching TV and maybe possibly uncorking a second bottle of wine to go with Vanderpump Rules. But clearly, at some point last night, I took off all my clothes and put on this ridiculous shirt.
It’s not ridiculous, though. It’s my second favorite sleep shirt, after Ollie’s UCLA tee. It’s comfy. And it’s also not ridiculous for me to be basically naked in my own home, not when I have no neighbors, and especially since no one ever has and—I thought—would ever visit me, so there’s no reason to ever worry about modesty.
Which means I’m standing here, basically naked, oblivious, staring at the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life. My hoo-ha is playing peekaboo, for sure. My tits might as well be bare, because this shirt is so old and has been washed so many times it’s basically see-through, and now that I’m aware he’s scrutinizing me and that I’m naked, my nipples are pebbling, thickening, going hard and tingling. I see his eyes go to them.
And yeah, his zipper is totally bulging.
I feel a blush creep into my cheeks, fiery.
“Fuck.” I murmur this under my breath.
“Yes, please,” he growls.
And I swear to god, he puts his hand on the lever of the screen door.
What? No. Don’t do that.
I’m frozen, unable to move as he swings open my door. Steps over the threshold, and stands in front of me. Towers over me. I’m not a tall girl—I stand five-five and a quarter when barefoot. So this man, at six-feet and several inches, does indeed tower over me. He stares down at me, those sea-churn eyes flitting over my face, back down my body as if he can’t stop looking at me.
And for my part, I can’t stop looking either. The bulge in his jeans is huge.
I unfreeze then, and back up. Tug the hem of the shirt down in front, which covers my hoo-ha but tightens it around my breasts. Can’t win, I don’t think.
“You need to leave,” I grate out.
“You shouldn’t answer the door like that.”
“I’m tired. I just woke up.” I don’t know what’s come over me. I should be kicking him out, not talking to him. “And I’m hungover.”
“It’s past noon, and you just woke up?” He smirks. “That’s a hell of a hangover.”
“Past—did you say past noon?”
“Yeah.” He checks the watch on his wrist, an expensive, waterproof-looking thing. “Twelve thirty-four.”
“Shit!” I forget him, forget my shirt, forget that I’m naked. “I’m late for work!”
I was supposed to work at eleven again today. I turn and scramble to my bedroom, pull my emergency prepaid cell phone from the bottom of my purse.
Dead.
Where the hell is the charger? My room is kind of a disaster, because I’m not the neatest girl in the world. There are clothes everywhere; half a dozen pairs of scrubs on the floor, more folded in a basket, bras on door handles and on the floor, along with panties and towels.
I can’t find my charger anywhere.
“SHIT!”
“Something wrong?” His canyon-deep voice comes from somewhere behind me.
I’m on the floor near the bedside table, rooting through the clothes and old junk mail for the charger. “Yes, there’s something wrong. I was supposed to be at work an hour and a half ago.” I finally find it, buried. Plug it in, but the phone is old and it takes a while to get enough of a charge to turn on once it’s died. “And my phone is dead.”
“At least you have your truck, now.”
I look at him. He’s in the doorway to my bedroom, filling it completely. He’s wearing a thin black V-neck T-shirt that hugs his torso and biceps, and the way he’s standing, one arm over his head against the door frame, has his shirt hiked up so I can see grooved abdominal definition, and a thick trail of blond body hair leading under his waistband.
“My truck?” I remember how he got here in the first place. “How did you get my truck here?”
“I had it towed, had it fixed, and then drove it here.”
“Wait.” I stand up, and remember that I’m naked, and sit
back down, cover my lap with old clothes. “What are you doing in my house? What are you doing in my bedroom? You know what?—Don’t answer; you need to leave.”
“You want to call your work with my phone?” He digs into his hip pocket, withdraws a sleek smart phone and extends it to me.
Equanimous. How can he be so damn equanimous all the time?
“Stop being so nice.” I stretch up from the floor, holding clothes against me to shield me from his gaze, and to hide the evidence that I’m sincerely and severely affected by him. “It’s creepy.”
“Since when is nice creepy?”
“Since no one is ever nice for no reason,” I say, dialing the office.
“I have a reason.” More leaning, more smirking, more bulging biceps.
“Oh, yeah?” The line is ringing, ringing, ringing. “What reason?”
“The reason is nice doesn’t need a reason.”
“That’s stupid. Try again.”
“Okay.” He strokes his beard with long, strong fingers. “Umm…okay, how about this: you’re seriously hot, and being nice to you stands to benefit me in some way, at some point, even if it’s just more free glances at those big, juicy tits of yours.”
I’m struck dumb by this response for a moment, until I recover my wits. “Jesus, you’re a pig.”
A laconic shrug. “You asked.”
“They’re not that big.” I cross my arms over my chest, not exactly self-conscious, but—okay, plenty self-conscious.
“Big enough, from what I saw, and I’m pretty sure I saw plenty.”
I glare at him, sigh in frustration because no one at the office is answering the phone. “Can we stop talking about my breasts?” I say this as someone finally picks up, which means they catch that statement.
“Um, hello?” Lindsey answers, confused.
“Oh, god, Lindsey, hi, it’s Niall.”
“Niall! Are you okay? We were all worried about you.”
“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. My truck broke down last night, and I slept through my alarm this morning. I’m so sorry, Lindsey. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Half an hour, maybe?”
Lindsey confers with someone, the words muffled. “Well, actually Dr. Beardsley is here and he says it’s fine, just take the day off.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
There’s the sound of the handset being transferred, then I hear Dr. Beardsley’s thick Texas twang. “Niall, darlin’, ya’ll just stay home today, a’ight? We-all are fine here. Ya’ll took care’a things yestiddy, and ’sides, you ain’t taken a day off in—well, ever.”
“You’re sure, Dr. Beardsley? I can be there in less than half an hour.”
“I may be old, but I ain’t dead yet. I can take care of my own practice for one day.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. Now git. I’ll see ya’ll t’morrah.”
“Okay, thanks. And—I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before in my life.”
“Happens to the best of us, I’m afraid. Why, I ’member once I was two hours late to my own surgery.”
I laugh, because this is quintessential Amos Beardsley. “Let me guess—you were out hunting?”
“Why Niall, it’s like you know me. You are surely right, though. Got a nice eight-point buck that day, and then had my knee replaced.” He gives a chesty, rumbling cough, which he’s had for as long as I’ve known him. “Listen to me, rambling on like a fool. I got patients, so I’ll let ya’ll go. See you t’mrorrah, Niall.”
“Bye, Dr. Beardsley.”
“G’bye now, sweetheart.”
I end the call, toss the phone back into my purse, and then remember it’s not mine. Retrieve it, and hand it back to Tall, Blond, and Muscular.
“So you’ve got the day free?”
I nod. “Looks like it.”
“What are you gonna do with it?”
I shrug. “Hell if I know. I haven’t had a Wednesday off in…a really long time.”
“Might I suggest letting me take you to breakfast? Well, lunch. Brunch. Whatever.”
“You may suggest, and I may decline.” I don’t quite look at him, because if nothing else, real food sounds great. All I’ve got is stale bread and no toaster.
“I did bring you your truck.” Another of those insufferable smirks. “That should earn me brunch, at least.”
“Yeah, about that. How’d you do it? I know for a fact I have my keys in my purse.”
“Spare key in the magnetic box under the front right wheel well. One of those spare key hideout things.” He digs in his hip pocket, withdraws a single key, and extends it to me.
I take it, stare at it. “I didn’t even know it was there.” I glance up at him. “What was wrong with it?”
“Out of gas.” His lips twitch in his beard, as if he’s struggling to hold back laughter.
“Out of gas?” I frown, puzzled. “But I just filled it up a few days ago. Shouldn’t be empty yet.”
“Leaky fuel line. Didn’t take them long to fix it.”
“How much did it cost, for the tow and the repair?”
“Brunch.”
“What?”
“The price of a meal, that’s how much the repair cost.”
I breathe in and out slowly a few times, trying to gather my thoughts. I should not have lunch with this guy.
But why not?
He rescued me last night.
He brought me my truck this morning—this afternoon, rather. He’s not asking for repayment.
I don’t even know his name, nor he mine, and he’s in my bedroom. I’m all but naked, and he’s made it clear he likes what he’s seen. And, dear lord, he’s seen plenty, as he stated himself.
Does that last point go in the pros or cons? I don’t know.
He’s got me off-kilter.
The dream still lingers in my mind, that image of Ollie’s dead eyes swiveling to stare at me. The helplessness. It’s suddenly hard to swallow. If I stay here all day, alone, I’ll relive that dream over and over and over again, until I’m crazy.
So, maybe I’m already crazy, but I find myself looking up at him. “All right. Fine. Brunch. But you need to leave so I can get dressed.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“You’re not watching! Jesus.” I shake my head, amazed at his blatant lechery. “You don’t even know my name.”
“Niall James.”
I blink, stunned. “How—how did you know?”
Something dark flickers across his gaze. It’s so quick, I almost miss it, and doubt that it was ever there once it’s gone. “It was on your registration. I looked in the glove box for the spare key.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“Lock.”
I frown up at him. “Lock?”
“It’s short for Lachlan, but nobody calls me that except my mother, and that over my repeated protests.”
“Lachlan. You have a last name?”
“Nope. I’m an escaped clone from a secret government super-soldier experiment.” He manages to say this deadpan.
“Don’t be a dick.”
He laughs, and god, that sound is sexy as hell. I hate him for it. Or I want to, but I can’t quite manage full-on hatred. Annoyance, at best.
“Montgomery,” he says. “My name is Lachlan Montgomery.”
I stand up, hold a handful of dirty laundry against my belly to hide my crotch, and extend my other hand to him to shake. “Nice to meet you, Lachlan.”
He shakes my hand—god his hand is big and rough, the palm callused to the point of feeling like sandpaper. “Please call me Lock.” Another of those brief flickers of something crosses his features. “It’s nice to meet you too, Niall.”
“Great, we’re introduced. Now. For real. Get the hell out of my house so I can get dressed in privacy.”
“Fine, fine.” He backs away, as if he can’t quite bear the thought of tearing his gaze off of me. Which is weird.
And not unwelcome.
Yes—yes it is unwelcome, dammit. What am I thinking?
Did I just agree to have brunch with this guy? Why? Why? Stupid, Niall, so stupid. You’re in no position to be going on dates.
But it’s not really a date, is it?
I ponder this question as I wait until I hear the front doors close, both the storm door and the entry door. And the answer I come up with, confusingly, is that yes, it is a date.
I agreed to a date with a man whose name I didn’t even know at the moment of agreement. A man who barged uninvited into my house, after ogling my mostly naked body.
Well, hell, if it’s a date I’ve agreed to, I can’t just throw my hair in a ponytail and wear comfy pants, can I? So I take a shower, depilate all the appropriate areas, and take the time to dry my hair and curl the ends.
Which is a bad idea, because Ollie always loved it when I curled my hair like this. I don’t do it often, mainly for special occasions, or the few times in our relationship when we had time alone, together, not working. A day off, a date between assignments with MSF. Our wedding.
And I’m crying, thinking of Ollie while curling my hair for a date with another man.
God, I’m a mess.
He’d wind the curls around his fingers and tug on them. He’d pull me up against him and twirl my curls and kiss me sweetly, tugging a little. Gently, sweetly, not aggressively, just…sweetly and possessively.
I have to stop and put the curling iron down and breathe. Blink tears away.
Why am I doing this?
Just offer the man some money and get rid of him.
Lock wouldn’t take money, though, something tells me. And I already agreed, so I can’t back out now, can I?
Of course I could. But it would be rude, especially after he went so far out of his way to help me.
He wants something from me, though. I mean, duh, obviously he wants something from me.
He wants that from me, and there’s no way in goddamned hell that’s happening.
So why did I trim my down-under and shave my legs and underarms?
Why am I curling my hair and putting on eyeliner and mascara and lip stain for the first time in over a year?
Why am I stuffing my ass into my smallest pair of shorts, and my tits into a short-sleeve button-down flannel? And why, oh why, oh why am I leaving the top three buttons undone? I button the third button, after re-examining the amount of cleavage being revealed. Two buttons is plenty.
Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance Page 10
