Page 19 of Becoming His Pet

Chapter Seven

Greg watched her disappeardown the hall, her hips swaying gently with each step and the very bottom of her ass cheeks peeking out from her cut-offs. He groaned internally, and snagged the bag of chips from the table, rolling it down and pinning it closed before stashing it back in the cabinet.

They’d need real food soon, like tomorrow. And she’d need clothes. Longer shorts that didn’t show off that ass of hers, and loose-fitting shirts. The woman had too many curves to keep his focus elsewhere.

He couldn’t completely blame her body; he’d been attracted to women before. But this was different; something else drew his attention. Maybe it was that steel strength he saw in her. Or her stubbornness. Maybe it all reminded him too much of a crush that went unsatisfied.

He could admit after spending years apart from his family that he had crushed hard on Aubree for a time. Not that he would admit it to her or Blake, but he could be honest with himself about it. Years in the marines helped him get over her, and accept she was his sister-in-law. And after seeing the trouble she caused Blake, he happily took the position of bystander.

Nora had the same fire in her, though. And apparently the same magnet for trouble.

A journalist. She’d said she was chasing a story, but he didn’t buy it.

Once he heard the shower turn on, he went into the bedroom to find her a shirt. He’d just leave it on the bed for her when she got out. All wet from the shower, hair dripping, her body being hugged by the towel.

Yep, he needed to go for a run or something because his body was too happy at the mental vision of her stepping out of the shower.

Dropping the shirt for her on the bed, he headed back to the living area of the cabin. He washed out the bottles again, tossed them in a bin near the back door, and went around the cabin making sure all the windows were locked.

The light outside the front door flicked on. Automatic timer. He left it on and decided to get a fire started.

“Hey.” Her soft voice announced her presence. When had the water turned off?

“I put a shirt—oh, good, you found it.” He stood from the fireplace staring at her. His White Sox T-shirt hit her just below her knees, safely tucking away her curves. She’d dried her hair, but it was mostly still wet; little droplets formed at the ends of her hair and fell to the shirt.

“Yeah. Thanks.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach and sat on the arm of the couch. “Can I use your phone? I do need to get in touch with my editor. If I don’t check in, he’ll worry.”

“Your editor.” Greg cleared his throat.

“Yes. Remember, I told you—”

“I’m still confused. What story were you trying to get? Anthony and Teo didn’t work at the flower shop, did they? And they’re the ones being investigated.” He scratched the back of his neck. Fucking mosquitos.

“No, they didn’t. But they run collections for the Santinelli crew,” she stated. Greg already had figured that part out, but it didn’t give him any more information on what she wasinvestigating.

“Okay, so those thugs come in every month and what, collect protection money? They still do that?”

She gave a little laugh. Not the sort that held any sort of humor in it, but one used to buy time. She was stalling.

“Nora. What would they come collect?” He squared off with her; when he asked a question, he expected an answer.

“I don’t know.” She smiled with a shrug. “I was just the flower girl. I made the arrangements.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. He despised lying. And he’d put up with enough of it already.

---