Page 5 of Catching Mr. Right

“Right, I get it.” That’s the appropriate response, isn’t it? It’s not to cup my hands to her face and kiss that bright pink pout. I can almost taste cotton candy as I shift my stance to deal with the thickening of my dick. “I’m not…” Not what? Half hard because of her words? Not letting my dick think for itself? Not completely off the fucking rails having a physical response like this to some… some girl?

I don’t even know her.

I kick a stone, sending it skittering across the ground in front of my boot. She’s nothing. This is nothing. It’s not the first time I’ve been attracted to someone. I’ve got this completely under control. “I cleaned up the kitchen and arranged for the oven to be replaced. Claire and I agreed that would be best.”

“Okay.” She’s still focused on her hair. She pulls a few strands from the bunch and rolls them into a little ball between her fingers before dropping it.

I’m talking to her, trying to be polite and friendly, and she can’t look me in the eye? She didn’t have that fucking problem when I was being curt. “Right. I expect you in the kitchen in five minutes.” With an about face, I march toward the main house, calling out, “We might not have an oven, but we still have a meal to prepare.”

***

“You swear a lot,” Mandy says while she gingerly pokes and prods at the lump of dough on the floured surface in front of her.

It took a couple days for the new oven to arrive, and now that it’s installed I figured she could prepare fresh rolls to go with lunch, but she doesn’t seem to understand the concept of the firm hand the dough needs. Would she get it if I showed her? If I bent her over the counter and spanked her ass? Perhaps she would. Maybe she’d like it. Maybe we’ll never know. That’s more likely than my touching her. Goddamn dick.

I try to brush off the thoughts that swamp me. Juliette laughing at me the first time we got naked together because she hadn’t believed me when I told her I was hung. Her body pressed tight to mine while she whispered my name against my ear in a tiny hotel in Versailles. The way she sucked on a cigarette in one of those antique holders like the actress from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a moviewe used to watch far too often. Then she’d lick her lips and stare at my crotch until I ached to give her something else for her pretty mouth.

EMTs and ambulances, white hallways and bright lights. My fault.My goddamn fault.

“More than anyone else I know,” she continues.

“What?” Mandy pulls me back to the kitchen, where I’m taking part in a conversation I don’t want to have. “Couldn’t we just work in fucking silence?”

“See. You did it again.” She waves a finger at me.

“What?”

“Said fuck.”

“Fuck?” I scowl at her. If she keeps poking that damn dough like that swearing will be the least of our problems.

“Exactly. You swear all the time. Is that because you’re always in a foul mood?”

“I’m not in a foul mood,” I huff. This is nothing but frustration and impatience at being stuck with a complete novice in my kitchen. Yes, she’s volunteering, but surely Claire could have found her something better to do that would have kept her out of my face, instead of making it impossible to ignore how attractive she is. Or that she can’t cook to save herself.

I leave vegetable prep and stride across the kitchen to stand behind her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m doing what you told me to,” she snaps.

“I told you to knead the fucking dough, not poke it.” Leaning over her shoulder, I glare at the sticky blob in front of her. “Did no one teach you to fucking cook?”

“No, they didn’t.” She glances at me, and her dark lashes flutter.

There’s this scent in my kitchen. This faded aroma that I thought might have been the flowers Claire carts through the kitchen a couple days a week, and now I realize is Mandy. Her soap, or a subtle perfume, or maybe just the aroma of her skin. It tickles my nostrils, and I stop myself from sucking in a breath as I plant my hands on her waist and lift her bodily out of my way. “What kind of irresponsible parents did you have? How the fuck did they expect you to fend for yourself at, how old are you?”

“Twenty-three,” she says. “And my parents were great people. I don’t care that they didn’t teach me to cook.”

I do a double take because I swear there was a wobble in her voice. A slight hitch that isn’t usual. Her expression is neutral, other than the brow she lifts as if asking what the hell I’m looking at. Honest truth. Even though I expect to see sadness on her face I have no fucking idea why. Fuck, now I’m pushing my own messed up shit on other people. “Of course they were. Wait, were?”

Is that why I caught a note of sadness?

“They passed away just after I was born.” She shrugs, and then grips her elbow with the opposite hand. “Car accident.”

“Shit. Losing people at any stage is…” I’m a fucking prick for being such an ass to her without knowing anything about her. My chest tightens the way it always does when Juliette pierces my thoughts. In the distance, Soldier whinnies. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t cause the accident. And I didn’t know them, not really.” She brushes her fingers down the inside of her arm, and I have an acute need to know what that sensation would feel like. “Now, since you keep complaining about how I don’t know how to cook, why don’t you teach me?”

“Sure,” I say, turning to the dough in front of us and gesturing her forward. I mean what other choice do I have? I already tried to convince Claire that Mandy would be of better use in any other part of the ranch, specifically one that didn’t involve my kitchen or the possibility of food poisoning, and she’s still here. May as well teach her how to be useful since I’m stuck with her for the summer. “Have you ever given a massage?”

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