Page 11 of The Spark Between Us

Chapter Four

Sarah

Braden livedin a house that could have been made from gingerbread and frosting—it was that adorable.

We’d driven to the end of a short cul de sac with a basketball hoop in the street and a homemade skateboard ramp next door. The neighborhood had traditional prairie-style homes with pitched roofs, lots of windows, and pretty landscaping with flower boxes. I couldn’t picture Braden coming home sooty after fighting a fire and weeding his geraniums.

And yet...there they were.

When Finn had sold me on his friend’s spare bedroom, I’d pictured a box with beige carpet in a small two-bedroom apartment. I’d felt grateful. Any sparsely furnished bachelor den was fine by me.

Bare walls? Fine.

Few kitchen utensils? Expected.

My stereotype also included a giant weight set in the garage, some manly power tools, and the pervasive smell of musky body spray. I’ll admit my concept came from picturing Finn as a teenager and aging up a few years. I hadn’t dated enough in the past decade to know otherwise.

Braden’s house had a white picket fence, a mailbox shaped like a dog, and a bird feeder hanging in a tree. I stole a glance at him to assess whether he thought the house screamed single man with a chiseled jaw and moody eyes, but unsurprisingly, he didn’t say a word.

“This is beyond charming. Have you lived here long?”

He winced a little and looked away. “Bought it three years ago. Did all the work on it back then. Now, I just pretty much live in it.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

I realizedI knew nothing about him. Maybe he wasn’t single. For all I knew, Mrs. Braden stood waiting inside to welcome us home. Just because Finn hadn’t mentioned a wife or girlfriend didn’t mean anything. Finn tended to have half his brain focused on economic theory and didn’t think to mention the obvious.

I stole a look at Braden as he put the truck in park and hopped out. His jeans hugged his legs like lovesick groupies, highlighting a very tight ass and muscular thighs.

I started to edge open the door on my side when he appeared and flung it wide, further proving his strength and land-speed capabilities.

He extended a hand to me, even though the helpful footstep lay at my feet. “Oh, thanks.” In my thirty-three years, no one had ever offered me a hand out of a car before. Granted, he probably thought I bore some residual aches from the car accident, but still, it was sweet.

With a nod, he helped me down and put a hand on my lower back, walking me down the path that led to the bright yellow front door. His hand felt solid and warm, reassuring. It also sent a completely inappropriate surge of heat down my spine, ending between my legs.

Wait, what?

I did my best to ignore my body, which was telling me to lean into his hand. Instead, I focused on the neat row of terra cotta pots filled with succulents and how they tied the purple leaf plum trees into a cohesive color palate. I really focused. So much so that it took a second to realize all my boxes were still in the truck.

I glanced back toward the truck. “Oh, I should grab my stuff.”

Braden shook his head, and I noticed his shoulders relaxed the closer we got to the front door. “Later. Let’s get you settled. I’ll bring it up.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m happy to drag my own boxes out of the truck, really.” I glanced back again, almost longingly. I wanted to move in and get settled. I also felt guilty about him helping me so much.

“You were just in a car accident. You’re not carrying boxes,” he said, coming around and fixing his dark eyes on me. My head ached, and I didn’t feel like arguing. After unlocking the front door, he moved aside to let me walk in first.

Stepping into the entryway, I noted the faint smell of vanilla and a brief stillness, which was immediately punctuated by a stampede of feet sliding along the hardwood floors and the overjoyed whimper of a dog. A second later, a big furry golden retriever wagged its tail in front of me and pawed my legs.

“Bella, down...” Braden said in a stern dog-trainer voice. When his pup obeyed, he scratched her behind the ears and ruffled the fur on top of her head. “Good girl. Such a good girl.” His voice went up an octave with his praise. Then he got down on his knees and lavished his dog friend with love. Maybe he was just slow to warm to humans.

“Sarah, meet Bella. Short for Lunabella Trouble Michaels. Four years old, still thinks she’s a puppy, and kind of possessive of me,” his voice rumbled. Bella began licking his chin as though he were covered in gravy.

“Trouble’s her middle name. Someone a Bobby Vinton fan?”

His eyebrow quirked. “You know the song?”

I shrugged and smiled at Bella. “She looks too sweet to be trouble.”

“When she goes through your trash and drags it down the stairs, you’ll see it differently.”

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