by T. S. Joyce
Holt turned and strode to the porch, up the stairs, and past his dog. The screen door screeched and slammed so loudly behind him that Bre jumped.
And just like that, her weeks of planning were wasted.
Chapter Two
Holt ran to the couch and gripped the back of it so hard, his lengthening claws dug holes into the fabric. He closed his eyes and blew out a steadying breath, counted to five. Stay inside. It’s daytime. It’s not your time to take this skin.
A long, deep rumble filled the room. Bad news. That woman did this. She shook his resolve, shook his control. And why? She was just another human. There were a billion of them. Annoying mosquitos.. Wearing a silk shirt out here? It was the fucking swamp, not a runway.
She’s a pretty woman, the monster pointed out.
“Shut up,” he muttered out loud.
Feeling steadier, he made his way back to the window so he could watch her drive away. Only she wasn’t in her truck, which was badass, by the way. Old blue Highboy with giant muddy tires. She’d ground every gear turning into his property, but whatever.
No, she wasn’t peeling out of his driveway, heading back to whatever life she’d left behind. She was still standing in the yard, staring at the front door with a frown furrowing her perfectly plucked and arched eyebrows. Pretty girl. Red hair in perfect curls that smelled like hairspray.
Probably didn’t drive with the window down for fear of bugs and wind. But…her window was open. Hmm.
Dark eyebrows so she wasn’t a natural redhead. Pity. Big doe-brown eyes. Thick makeup, soft hands and soft curves, this girl wasn’t like any of the hardened swamper women living in Uncertain. She didn’t belong.
Neither do you.
“Shut…the fuck up,” he gritted out. Stupid animal sure was mouthy these last few months. Before, the animal was quiet until it was his turn to take the body. Now he had all these opinions. Sometimes, Holt wanted to walk into Caddo lake and sit on the bottom of it until he drowned the animal inside of him. Who even cared if it killed his human side, too? No one would miss him.
She would.
“You’ve lost your fuckin’ mind. You have this idea of how a mate will be, but she’s a stranger. A human stranger. I don’t know what I was thinking asking one to come here.”
You wanted a mate to bring the silence back. Wish not granted. Another prehistoric rumble clawed its way up the back of his throat, and Holt exhaled in relief as the animal slunk back into the shadows of his mind. It wouldn’t last long, but at least it was a break.
Her flip-flops had heels on them. For what? To lengthen her legs? She couldn’t run from any predators in those shoes.
There she went finally. Bre turned and made her way back to her truck. Something tensed up inside of him as Holt watched her open the door. She paused and stared at something inside, frown deepening. And then she did something that didn’t make a lick of sense. She reared back and slammed the door, made her way to the back of the truck, yanked out a heavy-looking blue suitcase and dragged the thing toward the guesthouse.
“Whaaaat the fuuuuuck,” he murmured to himself.
Ha ha.
He hated everything about his animal.
Well…now what? He’d told her to leave and she hadn’t. He didn’t know the first thing about women, so what was he supposed to do about her?
She’s a stubborn creature. I like it.
He gritted his teeth and yanked the door open, made his way down the stairs and to the guesthouse. He caught up with her immediately on account of her fancy high-heeled flip-flops. She’d nearly rolled her ankles four dozen times through the pothole-pitted yard.
“A wise woman would use the sidewalk,” he pointed out as he closed the gap. He was definitely going to steal her suitcase and put it back in her truck.
“A wise woman wouldn’t have come here in the first place, so I guess we’ve both come to the same conclusion. I’m not wise!”
Whoo, she sounded pissed.
Holt jerked the handle of her suitcase out of her hand. “Your eyelashes look like they belong on a cartoon.”
“Well, your four billion muscles are unnecessary and ridiculous!” She yanked the handle out of his grasp and kicked at him with her ugly bejeweled shoe. Missed.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To wash off all my makeup and dress in rags so you’ll stop insulting me!”
“I wasn’t insulting you! I was pointing out you ain’t exactly wearing anything that makes sense—”
“You know, you can’t say anything bad about me. You are so desperate you advertised for a wife!”
“A mate.”
“Whatever! You took online dating to a new extreme and were willing to hitch yourself to a woman you’ve never met, sight unseen. And I’m beginning to see why! You aren’t nice!”
“Well…” He had no good retort to that. The lady had a point. He wasn’t known for his manners in these parts. “Well, what’s wrong with you that you actually answered my ad?”
“Oh, there’s a list a mile long of stuff wrong with me. Is that what you want to hear? Would that make you feel better? Would you feel superior if I told you I have nothing better going on with my abysmal life than to take a shot at a relationship out in a smelly swamp with—with”—she swatted furiously around her face—“more mosquitos than people?”
“Your shrieking is hurting my ears.”
She narrowed her eyes to furious little slits. Blue. She had blue eyes like her truck. Like the sky. Be nicer. “Your eyes look almost pretty surrounded by all the red in your cheeks.”
She reeled back like she’d been slapped. “Oh, nicely done.” She did an about-face and dragged the suitcase through the remaining four feet of weeds and uneven ground.
“What?” He followed her inside the guesthouse. “I was trying to compliment you!”
“You think saying my eyes look pretty when I’m pissed off is a compliment? Go get a book from the library on how to talk to a woman. You suck at it. Probably reason number one hundred and forty that you didn’t find a nice girl to put up with your shit before you had to put an ad out!”
“You’re supposed to be leaving, not unpacking,” he pointed out, concerned about her throwing the suitcase on the floor and digging through it. She pulled out a blue package of girl stuff and marched into the bathroom.
“I’m serious, lady—”
“Bre! My name is Bre.” She yanked off her eyelashes. Just…pulled them right off her face, and Holt watched in utter horror as the hairy black things floated down into the trashcan.
“What the fuck kinda sorcery is that?”
“The less appealing the better, right?” she muttered under her breath as she scrubbed her cheeks with some pungent chemical wipe that apparently washed away an entire layer of her face because the woman had freckles. Freckles! Under the war paint she’d smeared on her face that had made her skin look like porcelain, there was about two hundred freckles. And her eyebrows disappeared! Well, mostly. All that was left behind were some light red ones. She scrubbed and cursed at her face in the mirror until she turned around lookin’ like a whole new person. Full pink lips and freckles and pink cheeks and normal-lookin’ eyelashes and sky blue eyes that were filled with— “Are you crying?”
She let off a human growl that was a little terrifying and stomped past him, throwing her face wipe so it smacked him in the chest. “Ugh,” he muttered, plucking the thing from his chest and dropping it into the trash as fast as he could. She was making a ruckus, so he followed her back down the hallway to find her rifling through her suitcase again. She had an army green T-shirt in her hand and a pair of long short-pants. Short-pants? “What are those?” he asked, jamming a finger at her perfume-scented denim.
“They’re capris! I didn’t know I was supposed to bring booty shorts, Holt. You didn’t tell me anything before I showed up. I asked a bunch of questions, and you didn’t answer anything! I didn’t know there was some super-special swamp dres
s code.”
And then that furious little woman yanked her silk blouse over her head and threw it right at him. Shocked, Holt caught it with his face, and when the thing fell from him, she was already wrestling a T-shirt over her chest. Definitely a C-cup, and her bra was the same color as her shirt. And had lace.
“What are you staring at?” she ground out.
Duh. Her bra. But Holt had been struck too dumb to fight with the little hellion anymore. Boobs. Lace. Jiggling. Oh, God, she was taking her pants off. This was everything he’d imagined when he put out the ad. Her panties were red, too. This was fucking awesome.
He could hear her saying something, but couldn’t make out the words on account of the roaring of blood rushing from his head to his dick. White thighs he could squeeze.
Red panties.
Red bra.
Red cheeks. Uh oh, hand coming this way.
He didn’t try to duck out of the way at all as she slapped him right across his face. He just stood there like a dumbass, holding her silk shirt and staring in confusion at her bright red cheeks and the fury in her eyes.
“Get out!”
“But…it’s my house.”
“Out!” She jammed a finger at the door.
“But…you undressed in front of me.”
Her eyes got really big and intimidating.
Ha ha ha ha, his animal cackled.
Fuckin’ asshole.
Holt had never in his life been rendered speechless by anyone. But he had no words right now. None. So he clacked his teeth closed, handed her the shirt, made his way past her, and out the front door of the guesthouse.
And right before she shut the door in his face, he found his voice. “Dinner is at five!”
Slam!
Holt rocked back on his heels and stood there frozen in shock.
His cheek still stung from that slap, his animal was still dying laughing, and for some psychotic reason, his lips were curving into a slow smile.
He kinda liked her.
Chapter Three
I heard all that. Mic works great, but I said be appealing and attractive, not combative and unlovable.
Bre narrowed her eyes at the text message from Brian. Rude. She sighed and put the phone back in her pocket, then went back to taping a microphone bug under the end table in the living room. She would have to find a way to bug the main house later.
Dinner is at five. Ha. He’d sounded like Beast on that Disney flick. She wasn’t someone he could push around, though, so she would show up at 5:15 because she was hungry but also prideful. It would probably be something like macaroni and cheese and fried spam or something. He didn’t seem like the chef type. More like the three slices of moldy cheese, old Chinese food, and expired condiments in the fridge bachelor fare.
Mac ’n cheese actually sounded good right about now.
Bug in place, she stood and dusted off her pants. Which was pointless because this place was spotless. Probably cleaned it right before she got here. He had too many abs to be a good housekeeper. That bachelor wasn’t spending his time on running a clean house. He was too busy doing 35,000 sit-ups a day. Okay, she was still a little mad at his brashness, which was making her judgmental. Chill. Take a breath. Go charm him with your wit. Or tits. Or whatever.
At 5:18, she flipped her still damp hair over and scrunched it in her hands to make it look extra ratted. Then she shook it out, looked in the mirror by the door, and pulled a horrified face at how rough she looked with all her freckles hangin’ out, barely any mascara, her cheeks still pink from anger, and her red hair lookin’ mighty big and wavy. She was pretty sure the humidity outside wasn’t going to help, so she grabbed a ponytail holder. When she popped it onto her wrist primly, it stung like a wasp sting. She muttered “ouch,” straightened her ill-shaped T-shirt, and then marched her way out of the cabin and across the weed-riddled yard to the main house.
Fargo didn’t even get up when she stomped up the porch stairs. Holt might’ve been right. He actually might be the worst guard dog ever. All he did was track her with his eyes and sigh heavily like she’d bored him with her presence.
She lifted her fist and knocked three times on the outer wooden edge of the screen door. The white paint was peeling, but on the porch in the shade were stacked three cans of paint on a tarp and a bucket with a trio of paintbrushes inside. Hmm.
He wasn’t answering. Rude. She knocked again, but still nothing. With an irritated sound that Fargo definitely didn’t react to in any way, she twisted around and glared at the tire marks in the grass where Holt’s parking spot was empty. His Bronco was gone.
“Ha,” she muttered. “Of course. Typical man. Not dependable in any way.” With a sigh, she meandered over to Fargo and sat next to him at the top of the stairs. The cicadas sure were singing loud out here. And the swampy woods around the house had a dangerous beauty that she hadn’t seen anywhere else. The sound of the lake water lapping against the stilts of the house behind her was relaxing, and as the minutes dragged on, her body lost its tension and the anger faded from her. So he’d left. What did she expect, really? They didn’t like each other, didn’t match.
Really, she didn’t match anyone, and from what she’d gathered of Holt, he didn’t either. They were both doomed to be alone, and that was a little sad. It was like one animal in a zoo, looking through the cage bars at another, each knowing they were in the same predicament and neither had a chance at escape. Maybe a little piece of her respected Holt.
It took a special kind of toughness to be alone.
When she reached out and pet Fargo on the head, he leaned into her scratching fingers. Cute doggo. Giant, cute doggo. His big bushy tail wagged lazily against the porch floorboards.
The rumbling of an engine sounded louder than the cicadas, and she looked up to find Holt’s Bronco taking the curve onto the dirt driveway. He parked exactly in his tire treads on the grass and got out. Whoa. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but that made it easier to look at him. He looked somber, his lips set into a grim line in his stubble. He wore a white T-shirt that was so thin it was mostly see-through and clung to his broad shoulders just right. He wore sunglasses and a beat-up blue and white trucker hat on backward. His jeans were low on his waist, held up by a belt with a chain wallet, and thick-soled work boots were on his feet. Long legs on that one. Long, powerful ones, and his stride had the grace of a predator. Which he was. She needed to remind herself of that. Despite his human form right now, Holt was an animal down to his bones.
He wasn’t startled by her presence as he made his way up the stairs. He kept his head down until he stood right in front of her, then blew out a breath and handed her a crinkled paper bag.
“I got you somethin’,” he murmured. “You’ll probably be pissed and think I’m being a dick, but…” He cleared his throat and swallowed so hard, his Adam’s apple dipped low in his muscular neck. “Well, I ain’t.” When he shook the bag in front of her, Bre took it, confused.
He continued, “If you’re lookin’ for some soft-hearted man who understands your feelings? It’s not me. I don’t do feelings. I don’t have them like other people, and the faster you understand that, the faster you can decide whether you’re in or out.”
As she unrolled the top of the bag, he muttered, “I don’t know anything about women’s sizes, so I got a few. We can take back what you don’t want.” And then he climbed the last two stairs and went inside, the screen door banging shut behind him.
Baffled, Bre pulled out a pair of ripped up, cut-off shorts. He’d gotten her size right on the first one. The hem was frayed and the denim was soft. Comfortable. There were holes in it, but placed well. Okay, so a man was buying her clothes that were entirely different from what she normally wore. The inner strong-woman in her cried out, He’s trying to change you! But as she ran her fingers along the frayed bottom of the material, she thought he didn’t mean that at all. This was an apology for a man like Holt. It was him trying to help her fit in after he’d said she didn�
��t belong.
He’d bought her a present. How long had it been since any man had given her anything? Maybe Holt wasn’t such a monster after all.
She scratched Fargo behind the ear one last time and then stood, made her way inside. His house was old as dirt, but well-kept. The dark wood floors were all beat-up and scratched, but it added character. The walls were light and bright with white trim, and the ceiling had white-washed beams along the length of the living room and kitchen. The furniture was monotone, dark gray, even the table matched, but there were little spots of color here and there. A painting of a sunrise on the wall, orange Gerber daisies in a vase on the table, yellow curtains with a white geometric pattern on them.
Holt was in the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge.
“I didn’t take you for a yellow curtain type of man,” she said softly.
He popped the top of a longneck bottle with the flick of a finger and murmured, “My Gram picked them out. Didn’t feel right changing them.”
“This was your grandma’s house?”
His eye twitched. “I don’t like talking much.” He held up the beer, offering it to her. Another present.
She made her way to a kitchen island and leaned over the old, dented wooden countertop, took the beer, and sat on the single barstool. She took a long, steadying drag of the cold brew while he dug another beer out of the fridge for himself.
“Thank you for the clothes,” she said, laying her new shorts on the table. “That was really nice of you.”
“Not really.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes but focused on kicking a loose nail that stuck up from the wooden floor with the toe of his worn boot. God, he was handsome. That part was dangerous. She could fall for a man like him so easy. That wasn’t part of the plan, though. She was here for the story. Here for the story. Remember. Here for the story.
