by Jill Shalvis
She snorted, sat up, and shoved him off the bed. “Next time, knock.”
With a natural agility, he caught his balance and rose. “I’m hoping there isn’t a next time.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if you’d stop destroying this place, I wouldn’t have to keep fixing it.”
Trisha hated being clumsy. She also hated doing stupid things, but she tended to being the one and doing the other because she often acted without thinking things through. Impulsive, she thought with disgust. And she had yet to learn how to curb her insatiable curiosity. It was what had caused her to fall out of the hole in the bathroom into Hunter’s very capable arms in the first place, and it was what had caused her to defrost her refrigerator in the middle of the night because she couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel like reading.
But as much as she hated her own faults, she hated having them pointed out to her even more. “Maybe you should think twice about moving in downstairs. I could be dangerous to your health.”
“No doubt. But you’re not that lucky.”
“You’re taking your chances,” she said a little desperately. “I could set the place on fire next.”
He ignored her. Silently, he headed to her bedroom door, his body gliding smoothly, easily. Apparently, the man did indeed own a pair of jeans, and they were something. Snug and faded, they fit him like a glove, hugging his lean hips, his powerful thighs, those long legs. So did the T-shirt he wore, the one that revealed the sculpted arms that swung with elegant confidence as he walked.
Not fair, she thought to herself, not fair that a man as annoying as he was could have been given such innate grace, such fluidity of movement.
Where the hell was her stuffy scientist?
More sleep was what she needed, she decided as her body tingled with a yearning she didn’t want. Lots more sleep.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
She cleared her throat, aware that she’d been staring at him walk away, her mouth open. But she didn’t want to get up still in a fog, and risk the chance that she might jump him in her still-sleepy state. “Why don’t you start without me,” she suggested hopefully, holding the sheet up to her chin.
He gave her a long, thorough look.
Trisha returned the even gaze, refusing even to think about what she must look like sans makeup, her hair rioting around her face.
“Start without you? I already did.” Now his lips curved slightly at the edges. “You missed the breakfast peep show.”
“You mean ...?”
He nodded. “Yep. Made eggs and toast in the buff and you missed it.”
She didn’t believe him, of course. He was too proper for that. But a nagging sense of doubt held her, as did the dimple of humor tugging at the corner of his mouth. Could he have? That mouthwatering physique moving in all sorts of interesting ways as he worked a frying pan?
“Guess you’ll have to find a new hole to watch through,” he said casually. “I think I’ve developed a new habit.”
Her mouth dropped open as he shut the door.
It took her hours, hours of fetching and holding and generally being useless before Trisha dared to ask her first question of Hunter. “How come you didn’t just hire a contractor?”
Plaster dust coated his short hair, but instead of making him look ridiculous and juvenile, the white powder blended like silver hair would have, giving him an elegant air. All the more annoying, because Trisha had no doubts as far as her looks were concerned.
She looked like a wreck.
“I didn’t hire one because it wasn’t necessary,” he said patiently, inspecting the box of easy-set linoleum tiles they’d purchased. “I’m perfectly capable of doing this.”
On his knees in the kitchen, with a leather tool belt slung low on his hips, his T-shirt streaked with flooring compound, he definitely looked capable. But then again, Trisha suspected he would look capable doing just about anything. “Did you really cook eggs in the nude this morning?”
He didn’t even blink, nor did he stop what he was doing. “I don’t lie, Trisha.”
Maybe she would have to find a new peephole. “When was the last time you were up in space?”
“Two months ago.”
“What did you do up there?” she asked.
He sighed. “You’re just full of questions this morning, aren’t you?”
She grinned and shrugged. “I have this mean curiosity streak.”
“And I wondered how you got yourself into so much trouble.” He shook his head.
“Well? What did you do up there?”
He sighed again. “I was the payload specialist for the last space-shuttle mission.”
“What was the mission?”
“Mars. Our studies of the Martian analogue samples we obtained led us to some rather critical conclusions concerning meteorological phenomena on that planet.”
She stared at him and wondered if he’d spoken in English. “When do you go up again?”
“Maybe next year. I hope.”
Trisha thought of how wonderfully exciting his life must be. What a thrill it must give him to be doing important work for the space program. And how dangerous it was. “Do you ever get scared?”
Setting down the box of tiles, he looked at her. His expression was normally intense, focused, whether he was working or just walking, for that matter. But that concentration faded now as he focused on her. “Scared?” he repeated.
“Yeah. As in for your life.”
“Sometimes,” he said softly. “Being out there can get a little terrifying.”
“Being right here on Earth can get a little terrifying too.”
“I know.”
It unnerved Trisha that the man she thought of as stern and unbending could feel the same emotions she felt, emotions like fear, loneliness ... need.
Unsettled and needing some distance, she rose from her stiff knees and crossed the floor to the table where she had set their drinks.
Hunter, remaining on his knees in front of the refrigerator, picked up the glue for the tile and began to read the directions. Duff came over to him, sniffing at the can. Without breaking his concentration, Hunter reached out and stroked the cat’s back.
Trisha stared at him, watching carefully for any sign that it was all an act. That he couldn’t possibly be pleased to be on his knees in her kitchen wasting away a Sunday because of her stupid mistake, that he couldn’t possibly enjoy having her cat crawl all over him.
But he wasn’t acting, he was just being. And it confused the hell out of her. Even when he was speaking to her in the low, dry tone that said he was annoyed—she knew he wasn’t really, but just naturally quiet. And the way he looked at her, his eyes all dark and serious and ... hot. It took her breath away.
So why did he keep up the pretense of wanting his distance? He did have a sense of humor, a great one. And whether he wanted to admit it or not, he liked being with her.
And dammit, she wanted him to kiss her again. Setting down her drink, she asked, “What does your family think of your profession?”
“They try not to.”
“Not to what?”
“They try not to think about me or what I do.”
She caught a flash of pain rising up from deep within him, but it disappeared so fast she couldn’t be sure. He was reading again. “I’d think they’d be proud.”
“Think again.”
She wasn’t getting anywhere along that road. “I bet your job makes you seem attractive to a lot of women.”
He kept his gaze on the can of glue, but she could tell by the stiffness of his shoulders, he was no longer trying to read. “Yeah, that’s why I took it.”
She was getting used to this by now, his dry but deliberately provocative answers. But since she herself was the master of defense by sarcasm, he was out of his league. “So I can expect a lot of traffic coming in and out downstairs?”
Now he dropped his head between his shoulders and studied Duff, wh
o had settled on his legs. “Awfully curious about someone you don’t like much, aren’t you?” he asked finally.
“I never said I didn’t like you,” she said cheerfully. But she was going to learn something about this close-mouthed, private man if it killed her. “Why would you move in here when you could probably afford to buy your own place, one that’s already fixed up?”
“Are you going to ask me questions all day long?”
“Probably.”
He sighed. “You haven’t stopped talking since I woke you up this morning.”
“Well, you woke me up.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said.
“Then you gave me caffeine,” she added.
“You’d talk nonstop with or without caffeine.”
True enough, but she resented the observation anyway. “I just want to know more about you.”
Sighing again, he rolled to his feet with ease. “All right, obviously you’re not going to leave me alone until we resolve this. What is it exactly that you want to know?”
Everything. “Why aren’t your parents happy about what you do?”
Again, that flash of emotion in his gaze, the one that made her want to hug him. “My parents wanted me to follow in their footsteps.”
“Which are?”
“They’re creative,” he said carefully. “An actress and an artist.”
The very opposite of him and his technical kind of intelligence. “So they don’t necessarily disapprove, they just don’t understand what you do.”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
It caused him anguish. How well she could sympathize with not being understood. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, dazed by this unexpected discovery of common ground. “I would think they’d be very proud of you.”
He took a step toward her; Trisha couldn’t look away. The music rocked softly. Duff, in the background, meowed for dinner. Down below, on the street, a car honked. None of those sounds registered.
The moment spun out as the intimacy between them grew, enveloping them in a private cocoon. Hunter took another step, stopping a breath away.
Trisha tipped her head back, her pulse already ragged. In anticipation, her mouth parted.
Hunter leaned close, murmuring her name.
Then her phone rang, and broke the spell.
Six
Trisha started, then slowly let out the breath she’d been holding.
The phone rang again, and with the noise came reality. Sunday. Oh, dear—Uncle Victor with his weekly dose of guilt and shame.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Hunter asked, his voice husky.
It did give her some comfort to know he’d been as affected as she. “No.”
When the phone rang a fourth time, her palms started to sweat. Dammit, not now, not when she felt so open, so incredibly vulnerable. She wouldn’t be able to stand it.
But Uncle Victor missed Aunt Hilda, and didn’t just the fact that he called her tell her how much he cared, somewhere deep inside?
Oh, fine. She yanked the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”
“Well, girl, it’s about time,” Uncle Victor said in the cantankerous, demanding tone he always used with her. “I’ve been trying to get you for two weeks now.”
“Hello, Uncle Victor.” Her stomach already hurt.
“In the name of God, Trisha,” he griped. “Turn that blasted noise down.”
“I like the music,” she pointed out automatically, her every muscle tightening with stress. He couldn’t be nice or kind. Never. Not even when he was calling to say he missed his wife, he missed his niece, that he was lonely. “How are you?”
“What?” he bellowed.
“I asked how you were,” she repeated dutifully, slightly louder, in deference to the hearing loss that he wouldn’t admit to save his life.
“Tough as nails, as always. What the hell have you been doing?”
“I, uh...” She glanced at Hunter, who had squatted on the floor and was inspecting their work. He’d obviously forgotten about her. Relieved, she turned her concentration back to the telephone. “Just the usual, Uncle Victor.”
“You mean you’re still selling that nasty crap to people who have nothing better to do with their time?”
Like the man didn’t have a stack of adult magazines dating back twenty years in the woodshed behind the garage. “Selling nasty crap. That about sums it up,” she said cheerfully while her stomach clenched. She shot another surreptitious glance over her shoulder.
Hunter didn’t even glance up, which relaxed her somewhat. She didn’t want him to be an audience to what she knew was coming.
“Good God, girl, your aunt Hilda’s probably rolling in her grave,” Uncle Victor said roughly, his voice heavy with disapproval. “I’m not sure where we went wrong that you feel you have to do this.”
“You didn’t go wrong. And it pays the bills.” Sometimes.
“What’s the point, if you can’t be proud of what you do?”
“Who said I wasn’t proud of what I do?” Dammit, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let him bait her, and here she was, hooked again. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Hunter’s stance had stiffened. With all her might, Trisha wished she’d answered the phone in the other room, away from his curious ears.
“Well, you might as well be standing on the street corner, flaunting your wares.” Uncle Victor berated her so loudly that Trisha had to pull the phone away from her ear.
Hunter went unnaturally still.
“Standing on the street corner would constitute a different occupation entirely,” Trisha observed lightly as the last of her nerves frayed. Hunter shifted suddenly, drawing her attention to his concentrated frown, and she closed her eyes in embarrassment. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if she were trying to make a good impression. It was far too late for that.
Besides, she didn’t care what he thought of her.
Yeah, and pigs could fly.
“Sassing me!” her uncle said with disgust. “You would never have dared when—”
“Aunt Hilda was alive.” She quietly completed Uncle Victor’s oft-spoken line.
“I’m just trying to make sure I do what’s right by you.” Uncle Victor spoke louder than before, a sure sign his temper had been stirred. “I have a duty.”
“Your duty has been completed. The fact that I’m rotten to the core—”
Uncle Victor swore colorfully. “Don’t you put words in my mouth. I just don’t approve of what you do for a living.”
“So I’ve thrown my life away; it isn’t your fault,” she said dryly.
Hunter rose lithely from the floor. He stepped closer to her, his expression carefully blank. Horrified at what he was hearing, Trisha turned away and struggled to watch her words. She moved as far from him as the phone cord would allow.
The leather of Hunter’s tool belt creaked, warning her of his movements as he came close enough for her to feel his body heat seep into her back. “Was there something you wanted, Uncle Victor?” she asked quickly. “I’m really quite busy.”
“Just wanted to talk to my niece,” he grumbled. “Not like you ever call me.”
Guilt lanced through her, which was exactly what he’d intended. Still, she felt like a jerk. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, dropping her forehead to the wall. “I should call you more often.”
“It’d be nice. Instead, you’re too busy selling unmentionables to strangers. I can’t even tell anyone what you do for a living, girl. Good Lord, if I did, they’d all be beating down your door, thinking you were easy.”
A career in the army hadn’t softened his manners any. Gruff as they came, and stubborn as a mule once he got a thought into his head. “I’m not easy,” she said through clenched teeth.
From behind her, Hunter’s big, warm, callused hand settled on her shoulder, making her bite her tongue. Gently but firmly, he turned her to face him, ducking his head to see her face. She stared at his shoulders, fascinated with how the w
idth of them seemed to surround her.
He lifted her chin, the sparks of anger in his eyes startling her. “Hang up,” he mouthed.
“Just remember your upbringing, girl,” Uncle Victor said in her ear. “Your aunt Hilda and I worked hard to teach you straight.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said dully, her heart thumping in response to Hunter’s touch, to his nearness. To the empathy he showed. “You did your best.”
Hunter reached for the phone, looking determined.
“You can say that again,” Uncle Victor said with a snort. “When I think of all we gave up to raise you after your parents died—”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” But she stood there, locked in miserable memories until she felt a gentle tug on the phone.
Hunter took it from her and set it quietly in its cradle. His expression could no longer be read, but she had no trouble sensing the sudden tension and anger. For some reason, that made her want to cry. “Well, that was fun,” she said, striving for humor and falling flat.
He seemed to understand her need to keep things light. “Isn’t family something?” he asked quietly, still standing close.
“Oh, my family is something, all right,” she said, turning away. It didn’t matter what he thought, she told herself. It just didn’t matter.
The hand he had left on her shoulder tightened as he gently turned her back to face him. “He was rude to you.”
“Isn’t that the definition of family?”
“Why do you put up with it?” he asked, his tone suddenly curt, very controlled.
So this was what the space scientist looked like angry. Shakily, she released her breath. He was full of this rage, for her. The burst of emotion that realization caused made her legs rubbery. “I guess your family does things different.”
“Not much,” he muttered. “But I don’t let mine get to me.”
What he didn’t say spoke volumes, and she knew without being told that his family hurt him as much as hers hurt her. “Well, what’s family for if not to constantly remind you of every fault and failing?” she quipped.
“It’s wrong.”
