“If I was trying to climb out of it I wouldn’t have gone headfirst. That dog wouldn’t let go of my swimsuit.” She braced her palms against the outside wall and wriggled experimentally backward. Her ass wobbled as her toes struggled to find the floor, and, shit-fire on toast, the wriggling caused her tank top to ride up even higher.
Now both boobs were swaying in the wind.
“Is that what you two were playing with? A rope toy’s probably a better idea.”
“We weren’t playing and you owe me a new swimsuit because your fake dog ruined it.” She gritted her back teeth and tried to walk her palms up the wall, but her arm muscles were wet noodles and her core just tsked and reminded her she hadn’t taken a Pilates class for months.
“Duly noted.”
A few beats of silence passed as she hung there, calculating the odds of avoiding a head injury if she reversed direction and tried a slick parkour forward roll out of the window.
“Any more assistance required?”
Laughter was in his voice. She could just imagine the arrogant pain in the ass standing there, enjoying a free peep show and feeling pretty smug about it.
“Thanks, but I’ve got this. I’m just examining my options.”
“Uh-huh.”
The prickling down the back of her thighs resumed and she knew he was standing right behind her again. A slight vibration on the windowsill beneath her lower belly confirmed it—he’d braced his hands either side of her hips.
“Doesn’t look like you’ve got many from here,” he said. “Though the view is easy on the eye.”
“A nice guy would avert his eyes.”
“Whatever gave you the impression I was a nice guy?”
She grunted and when she didn’t comment further he muttered, “You always were the one kid who wouldn’t cry uncle.”
His knuckles lightly bumped her waist, and damned if she didn’t give an uncontrollable little shiver from his touch. He leaned in, the soft knit of his shorts brushing the backs of her thighs as he slipped his hands beneath her hips and lifted and pulled her toward him until her feet could touch the floor. He let go and she whooped out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
Vee tugged down her top and turned to him. The room skidded sideways and she tipped in slow-mo with it, her brain floating away from her body like a helium balloon. Strong arms gathered her up and she sagged into Sam’s chest, smacking her nose on so much bronzed, skin-covered rock that tears popped out in the corner of her eyes. Instinctively, she scrabbled to hold onto the solid object keeping her from falling on her ass, and she fisted her hands on the waistband of his already low-hung shorts.
“Vee?” his voice murmured against her hair.
“Dizzy,” she got out, squeezing her eyes shut. “Give me a few.”
And a few seconds—or four or five—was enough time for something other than dizziness to cause full body weakness. Like enough full body awareness to make a checklist of all the places where her good bits were smushed against his.
“Okay,” his voice rumbled again. “Though in the interests of full disclosure, you’re about to yank my shorts down and I’m not wearing any underwear.”
Her eyes flew open—to an extreme close-up of a flat male nipple—and she jerked her fingers open as if his shorts were constructed of stinging nettles. She arched away and his arms around her loosened but didn’t let go of her completely. Big hands slid down her waist to steady her hips, and she gripped his forearms because she was still a little newborn-colt wobbly. Due to being head down for the past five minutes.
Maybe.
Or maybe it had something to do with the way he studied her with what seemed to be one part concern—his forehead crinkled with worry lines—one part amusement—the curve of his firm lips—and one part hunger. Yeah, she knew Sam’s hungry look. Right now she felt as if she were a double bacon cheeseburger with no pickles, plenty of onions, and extra mustard.
Then the hint of his smile slipped, his forehead smoothed, and his eyes—which she’d never really studied this close up and were in fact the most amazing brown with tiny flecks of green—pulled her into their depths. Her fingers dug into the ridges and valleys of ropy muscles along his forearms and she swayed a fraction closer, stomach tingling with that electric buzz of anticipation. It’d been a long, long time since she’d felt a buzz of anything. The tingles zipped to her lips, currently lining themselves up with Sam’s. His gaze dipped and the weight of his stare settled on her lower lip, which parted in an invitation to kiss her stupid.
Kiss her? She was inviting Sam Ngata to kiss her? She’d lost her ever-loving freaking mind.
Vee’s mouth did a Venus flytrap impersonation and she stumbled backward. “Wow. Haven’t had a head rush like that since my jungle gym days.” She stretched her arms out like a drunk on a bender and walked—pretend staggered—to the nightstand to retrieve her water bottle.
While sucking down a few long gulps, she surreptitiously eyed Sam, who continued to watch her with a small smile tugging up his lips. Of course he was smiling—he’d probably mistaken her momentary dizziness and goofy staring at him as a veiled come-on. Oooh, big strong man, help the helpless damsel in distress and then claim a kiss in reward.
Like hell.
She set down the plastic bottle and shot him her coolest stare. “Thanks for your help. I can take it from here.”
“Night, then,” he said.
And a single arched eyebrow as he left the room was enough to raise the question of where, exactly, would she take it—this ongoing attraction to him—next.
Chapter 7
Sam drove home from work the next day with a kink in his neck and a pit in his stomach that weighed more than kauri slab. The blame for the neck kink, which had bugged him since Ruby’s bugling announcement that she was awake at quarter to six, could be laid at the feet of the assholes who designed the single most uncomfortable fold-out couch in the history of fold-out couches. The pit in his stomach…Sam rolled his shoulders in a slow circular motion as he turned into his road. Well, that was all on Vee.
He turned into his driveway, slammed on the brakes just in time as he remembered the gate was shut, and swore, even though he wasn’t really pissed about the extra hassle of opening and shutting the gate behind him. Having a kid and dog around just meant some adjustments. Already there were toys scattered around the floor and dog hair on the couch where Turbo had managed to sneak inside when no one was looking. Not to mention the major adjustment of having a woman who’d tempt a blind and deaf monk into sin living in his house.
Sam hopped out of his ute and unlatched the gate, pausing as the breeze shifted and blew the scent of something mouth-watering and not a microwave dinner over him. God, he was starving. He made short work of parking and relatching the gate, and hurried toward the house. Turbo the swimsuit thief—who Sam thought was a damn good dog to destroy Vee’s ugly granny swimsuit—lay in unconscious bliss on his bed. Awesome guard dog that he was, Turbo’s only reaction to Sam’s arrival was to wriggle bonelessly onto his back to display his doggy junk to the world. Nice.
He bypassed the snoozing pooch and opened the front door, following his nose into the kitchen. The “Hi, honey, I’m home,” never made it out of his mouth. Or if some part of it did, it got swallowed up in a choked inhale at the sight of Vee.
She wore one of her screen-printed Bountiful T-shirts and cut-off blue jeans that showed only a little less of her ass cheeks than the delicious glimpse he’d gotten last night. Her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail and a red bandana knotted around her head kept the wisps off her face. She leaned down to check the oven setting, all the time shaking her butt to some tinny music pumping out of the speaker buds jammed in her ears. She sang along to whatever song was playing, a little off key, a little too loud, but with a sexy little rasp in her voice that would’ve had him volunteering to sing karaoke with her any day.
Minutes of his speechless appreciation would’ve passed by if she h
adn’t straightened to look over the counter bar to the open plan living room and spotted him behind her in a wall mirror. Her eyes widened in the reflection and she whirled, a splayed palm pressed between her breasts. Just above the knot she’d tied her T-shirt into at the front.
“Shi—sheep!” she squeaked, shooting a glance over her shoulder back into the living room. Sam followed the line of her gaze to where Ruby sat cuddled up on the couch with a menagerie of stuffed animals watching a pink cartoon pig on his flat-screen TV.
“I wasn’t expecting you home so early.” Her hand slid from her heart to tug on the knotted T-shirt, which, bless it, refused to come undone.
He shot her a grin. “Leave it. You look so cute that…I can’t take my eyes off of you.”
She snorted. “Caught me murdering the song, did you?”
He stepped forward and plucked an earbud from her ear and tucked it into his. “Oh, pretty baby,” he crooned, then chuckled at the disco beat of Gloria Gaynor. “Disco? For real?”
“Shut up,” she said, but there was no bite in her words.
Unable to resist, he tugged Vee into his arms. She gave another squeak of alarm—this one sexy as hell—as she bumped into his chest. She didn’t punch him in the nose so he went for her hand and swayed to the beat. He felt a brief stiffness in her, then with a husky laugh she softened and moved with him. Her blue eyes turned up to his as they danced in a small circle around his kitchen, smiling at each other like idiots, the brief moment of connection keeping them together more effectively than the earbud’s wires.
The sudden shock at that connection was a punch to the nose, and pretending he was cool, pretending this was part of his usual teasing act, Sam pulled the earbud out and took a theatrical step back, holding out his arms.
“Ready for the Dirty Dancing finale lift, baby?”
Vee laughed, an unguarded belly laugh that rolled over him, rich and addictive as mānuka honey. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that for years.
She flapped a hand dismissing him. “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”
“Damn straight. How many times did you and Tui watch that damn movie?”
She removed the second earbud and pulled her phone out of her shorts pocket, setting it on the counter. “You don’t want to know. It set us both up for completely unrealistic expectations for our final school dance. Tim MacDonnell was no Patrick Swayze.”
“Unlike me, right?” To keep from touching her again, he crossed to the stove and lifted a saucepan lid. Delicious tomato and herby smells steamed out and he sucked in a deep sniff, clearing the flowery-musky smell of Vee from his nose.
Temporarily, though, as she hip-checked him out of the way to stir the contents of the pan. “You’re no Patrick Swayze either. Hashtag: truth hurts.”
He let her bump him aside because any more of her smell muddling his head and he just might grab her for another spin around the kitchen. “Are you dissing my dance moves? Because I’ve got some moves, you know. Some sheep-hot moves.”
She slanted him a mock glare. “Why don’t you take your sheep-hot moves into the shower before dinner’s ready? You kinda smell like a sheep. One that’s been dead in a paddock for a while.”
“Hashtag: burn,” he said agreeably and left her to it.
While he knew he wouldn’t smell minty fresh after a day in his workshop getting covered with sweat and wood chips, the spots of bright color on Vee’s cheekbones suggested she hadn’t minded being up close and personal with him at all.
Forty minutes later—showered and satisfied—Sam finished his third mini-orgasm-like helping of pasta. He even sat at his little-used dining table since Vee had set it up prettily for the three of them, instead of balancing a plate on his knees while he indulged in some screen time. Ruby, sitting across from him, had the tomato-based sauce spread in a ring around her cherub lips, and she chattered like a magpie between bites, seemingly uncaring as to who was listening.
“More salad?” Vee asked politely, offering him the bowl.
“Thank you,” he replied just as politely, and took it, dumping some more green salad on his plate. “Look at us, being all domesticated like a real family.”
Vee speared a slice of cucumber on her fork. “Pity the Wrights aren’t here to witness it. Are you sure you shouldn’t have gone with Isaac to the airport this evening?”
“Trying to get me out of your hair for a few hours?” He chuckled, spotting the flash of oh crap, he guessed my ulterior motive in her eyes. “It’s okay. Isaac’s more diplomatic than me and he’s used to dealing with bigwigs like the Wrights. I’m just the behind the scenes dancing monkey who happens to be good with a chisel.”
She slanted him a quick glance, her cheeks sucking in. “Aw, now, sweetie, don’t sell yourself short. You’re more than a dancing monkey. You’re a dancing monkey with some moves.”
“Sam’s a monkey.” Ruby giggled, cracking herself up. “Monkey, monkey.”
Ruby’s laughter was interrupted by the shrill of his doorbell. He swiped at his mouth with a paper napkin—a napkin, not a torn-off piece of paper towel—and left the giggling toddler and her mum in the kitchen. He grinned like a starstruck fool as he walked to the front door. Any other woman, if he’d made a statement like that, would’ve smothered him with sympathy or claimed his skill with wood rivaled that of Michelangelo’s sculptures. Not Vee. And damned if he didn’t enjoy her zero tolerance for any ego pandering.
He was still smiling when he opened the door to Isaac’s we’ve got a problem face.
“What?” Sam asked before his brain caught up with the fact that Isaac wasn’t on his doorstep alone.
Behind him was a man he recognized from professional headshots on the Wrights’ hotel chain website. Eric Wright. Eric looked a little flushed above the collar of his button-down shirt, and tucked close to his side but a good two inches taller than him was a woman Sam assumed was Eric’s wife, Julia. His very pregnant wife, by the bulge rounding out the front of her dress.
She tucked a strand of strawberry-blond hair behind her ear then sent him a little wave. “Kee-a ore-a. You must be Sam,” she said. “Wait, did I say that right? Kee-a ore-a, I mean, not your name. Duh.”
“Close enough, Mrs. Wright. Kia ora to you, too.” He minimally corrected her pronunciation of the Māori greeting which both Māori and non-Māori New Zealanders used as a casual hello.
“Oh, call me Julia.” She nudged her husband with an elbow. “And this is Eric. We’re so sorry to stop by unannounced.”
From inside came the sound of Ruby shrieking in annoyance. After last night’s dinner he surmised Vee was cleaning her daughter’s sauce-covered fingers.
“No worries.” Shooting a quick ‘what’s going on?’ glance at Isaac, Sam stepped out to shake their hands. “Come on in.”
He moved aside, allowing Isaac to take the lead into the house. Big brother could run damage control if Vee flipped out at their unexpected guests. He smiled an everything’s A-OK smile at the two Americans as they followed Isaac down the hallway.
Sam winced as a chair scraped on the kitchen floor and the sounds of mild pandemonium erupted with Isaac, Julia, and Vee all talking at once, and Ruby shouting “Hi-hi-hi!” above it all. The Wrights showing up tonight at his place was definitely not part of their itinerary, so Sam’s gut tensed as he strolled into the kitchen and offered everyone something to drink.
Once Eric had accepted a beer and Julia a glass of juice, Sam guided them out onto the rear deck which had an unobstructed view of Bounty Bay beach. Eric helped his wife onto one of the outdoor sofas and sat beside her, positioning a small cushion behind her back. His tender expression aimed at his wife hardened as he turned back to Sam and Isaac.
“We haven’t had a great experience of New Zealand’s famed hospitality so far,” he said.
“Honey.” Julia sent an apologetic glance at Vee, who’d sat on one of the armchairs with Ruby on her lap. “It’s not their fault.”
“Actually, it is,” Isaac s
aid. “Auntie Raewyn or Sea Mist Resort made a mistake with the Wrights’ reservation. They’re not booked in until next week and everywhere else in town is chock-full with the Snapper-tastic surfcasting tournament this week.”
A spot of fishing was one of the planned Welcome to New Zealand activities he and Isaac had in store for the Wrights. The Snapper-tastic drew tourists from all over the country to Bounty Bay where they had a chance of big money prizes if they reeled in the heaviest snapper—a fish known for its big teeth, hence the name—each day of the five-day tournament. And finishing off the week was the Far North Surf Lifesaving Championships, which Sam was competing in. Both popular events meant the Bounty Bay hotels, motels, and bed-and-breakfasts would have no vacancies over the weekend either.
Shit.
“Sounds like it is our fault,” Sam said evenly. “How are we going to fix it?” He snuck another look at Julia’s baby belly—something he wished Eric had thought to mention—and wondered how she felt about being a modern-day Mary with no room at the inn. Not as irritated as her husband, judging by the set of his jaw.
“I’d offer for them to stay with us at Mum and Dad’s,” Isaac directed at Sam, “but I’ve already explained how me and Nat and Olivia are bunking there while our house is being built…” He raised an eyebrow expectantly and Sam got it. He sure as hell didn’t like that he could read his brother’s mind, but he could.
He uttered an awkward laugh. “Damn. Because Ruby’s room has only got a single bed and the spare room’s full of junk…” His gaze tripped over to Vee who was also eyeing up Julia’s belly, then her chin lifted as she studied the tight weariness on the woman’s face.
“You should take our room tonight,” she said quietly. “Sam and I will take the fold-out couch and sort something out in the morning.”
“Oh, no,” Julia said before Sam could pick his jaw up off the floor at Vee’s suggestion. “We couldn’t impose on you two lovebirds like that. We’ll take the couch; it’ll be like our college couch-surfing days. Won’t it, honey?”
Break Your Heart_A Small Town Romance Page 9
