Page 3 of The Wanderer

Yeah, Hope McWilliams intrigued him so the sooner he focussed on the job at hand, the better.

"The quote will work better if you show me around?"

He expected her to bristle again so her chuckle disarmed him. "The renovations I want done are out the back."

She unlocked the door and punched in an alarm code before locking the door behind them. "Follow me."

As they moved further into the shop, he couldn't help but stare. The regular, square shop front opened up into an odd, hexagonal room that housed a grand piano, a cello, and a drum kit. The wooden floorboards glowed, the walls were covered in framed sheet music, and light poured into the room via an expansive skylight. His immediate impression was one of peace, and not many places made him feel peaceful these days.

"You teach those instruments?"

"No, I like the way they look in the room." She rolled her eyes and he barked out a laugh. Sarcasm. He liked that.

Her nose crinkled. "Sorry. It's just that I'm tired of teaching and I want to do something more, hence the need for renovations."

She opened the double wooden doors at the back, revealing darkness. "What I need you to build is through here."

When she flicked a light switch, Logan gaped. If the hexagonal room was unique, this one was truly odd. Sandstone floor, roughly bricked walls, scattered with medieval light sconces and a glass domed ceiling with more cracks than a plumber's convention.

"I need this converted into a soundproof recording studio." She faced him, hands on hips, a worried frown slashing her perfectly shaped brows. "Is it doable?"

"Anything's doable."

And there it was, the unmistakable flare of excitement in her eyes.

He hadn't imagined it earlier.

She was into him.

Considering he hadn't got laid since he arrived in Melbourne three weeks ago, ruffling the princess to the point of unravelling could be fun.

Chapter Two

Hope silently cursed her fair English skin as heat surged to her cheeks.

Damn this man for making her feel more flustered than she had in years.

No guy rattled her, not anymore. She’d only been foolish enough to fall for a guy once and the lessons learned seven years ago courtesy of her first—and only—love ensured she didn’t sweat the small stuff. What she’d endured with Willem, and the resultant fallout, had hardened her to the point of complete and utter cynicism.

Sure, she dated. She hadn’t given up hope of finding a genuine guy completely. But her inbuilt self-protective mechanism ensured that whenever a guy got too close, she found herself picking faults or picking fights or being picky in general, doing whatever it took to sabotage the relationship. Not a great trait for finding any kind of lasting happiness. Then again, Willem’s deliberate destruction of her naïve love meant she didn’t believe in anything long-term so it didn’t fuss her.

No man perturbed her: she didn’t let them get close enough. Yet Logan Holmes, with his broad shoulders and smouldering blue eyes and cheeky grin made her discombobulated since the moment he strode into her favourite café like he owned the place.

She first learned the phrase 'sex on legs' when she'd been fourteen, after smuggling a bag of illicit romance novels into her room. Nothing got past Mrs Folsod, the housekeeper; Hope had wondered if she’d been an off-the-books operative for M16 because the battle-axe had been that good at snooping and ferreting out secrets.

But those fabulously eye-opening books had made it past the old bat and Hope had devoured them, savouring every saucy page. She'd learned a lot from those glorious books: the art of self-pleasuring, how raunchy sex could be beyond the boring sex-ed classes at the snobby private school she attended, and many intriguing terms, including the one that described Logan perfectly: sex on legs.

Muscly legs too, from what she'd glimpsed beneath his too-tight denim. The fabric outlined a sensational butt too. As for those forearms that she had a thing for…corded with muscle, tanned, with a fine dusting of dark blonde hair the same colour as that on his head.

It looked like he hadn't had a haircut in a while, the shaggy surfer style suiting him, drawing attention to those cut cheekbones and jaw, accentuating the unique blue of his eyes. They reminded her of a Yorkshire sky on a perfect summer's day, which was crazy, considering she hadn't been home in five years.

"Hope?" He snapped his fingers in front of her face and she wrenched her attention back to him.

He'd said, 'anything's doable' in a tone so loaded with innuendo she'd clenched her thighs, like she had thirteen years earlier reading that first racy novel.

Sure her cheeks must be a fiery beacon to her embarrassment, she mustered a disinterested expression. "I want to know if you can turn this space into a state of the art recording studio."

When he grinned, she knew she hadn't succeeded in fooling him and she almost sagged in relief when he stopped staring at her with those too-knowing eyes and glanced around the room.

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