Page 19 of Forget Me Not

No. Nova and I will remain two separate entities. I won’t touch her. I won’t fuck her.

Because no matter how pretty she sounds moaning my name . . . Nova Fischer wasn’t meant for me.

After my little run-in with a very pretty, very flushed Nova, I can’t shake the unease stirring in my gut. So, I do the only thing that seems to take my mind off her. Work.

There’s a leaking faucet in one of the rooms. I fix it. There’s a problem with room A-3’s door getting stuck and locking guests in. I fix it, too.

Finally, I find myself on the third floor of the building, in the rooms that barely get used because they need the most work. Don’t ask me why, but I need something to do and no one around here is going to do it, unless Nova tries and well . . . we already know my feelings on that.

The woman needs a support system. One that’s capable of handling shit like this. Cracked floorboards, busted pipes. Broken air conditioning. She can’t do it all by herself and while the last thing I want to do is give her some kind of idea, I also can’t stop myself from being the one to help her. At least while I’m here. After I’m gone, she’s on her own.

I’m inspecting one of the rooms on the third floor where the wallpaper is peeling away when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn, ready to punch whoever’s sneaking up on me and come face to fucking face with the object of my insanity in all her fucking glory.

She’s still got that damned sundress on and the image of her making herself come in the hammock earlier today are still burned in my brain.

“What are you doing up here?” She doesn’t sound happy, but neither am I. My cock’s rock-fucking-hard and all she’s done is walk in the room and fill it up with her fucking vanilla scent.

“You have a busted pipe. Needs fixed or it’s going to rot the rest of the walls out below it. Probably already has.”

“Okay, but that’s not your concern. You’re a guest here.”

Thank fuck. I need to argue.

“And who’s going to fix it if not me?”

“That’s beside the point. I can’t afford to pay you to fix everything this building needs done,” she mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. I can see she’s embarrassed, but I don’t care. I have money. I don’t use it. Not enough. It all sits in a safe I carry with me wherever I go.

“I don’t want your money.”

“Is that why you left this envelope on my porch?” she snaps, holding the very crumpled up envelope up in front of me. “Spying on me?”

I take a step toward her; she steps back. I take another step toward her; she steps back again. We do the same routine until her back presses against the wall and I’m a few inches in front of her.

She’s so close, I can taste the sweetness of her skin.

Her lips part over a shaky breath and for a moment, I think she’s going to run, but she doesn’t move. Heat travels up her neck, over her cheeks, and into her hairline, as if she’s putting two and two together about just what I was spying on earlier today. Gently, her hands rest over my stomach, but she’s not pushing me away.

One of her curls slips over my finger and I catch it. It’s as soft as it looks.

Carefully, I lean forward, running my nose up the column of her throat and a shiver ghosts through her.

“Let me make myself clear, little bird.” I hover at the pulse point in her neck and her breath hitches. Her hands on my stomach flex over the material of my shirt and I swear to God, it goes straight to my fucking cock. “The next time you decide to make that pretty little pussy come, give me a head start so I can make popcorn. Wouldn’t want to miss the show.”

And before I can do something stupid, I pull away from her and leave her standing in the middle of the room by herself.

“Did you see that Judy got her boobs done, again?” Tara asks, lowering her voice until I can barely hear her over someone’s rendition of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me.

I shake my head, though I really couldn’t care less about Judy Blankley and her fake boobs.

“I’d like to know how they afford it,” Katelyn chimes, sipping her blue-colored beer as if she knows something no one else does.

“Well,” Tara says, leaning closer. “I heard he was caught stealing from the cookie jar for this year’s festival.”

“Oh, he was not,” I chuckle, sipping my own blueberry-flavored beer. It tastes like Kool-Aid, and that’s dangerous. “She just comes from money.”

“I heard her parents are loaded and they don’t like that she moved here.”

“I heard she was sent to boarding school in Spain for four years because she got caught sleeping with one of her private school professors.”

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