Page 2 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

I’d guess he’s a traveling salesman or someone peddling some kind of information, except for the fact that I’m almost impossible to find if you don’t know where to look or have the directions on how to get here, which makes it pretty inconvenient for most people. The shiny new rental that is so far above standard domestic sedan in the driveway, the expensive cologne wafting off this guy, and the five thousand dollar designer suit tell me this is indeed a client.

“What the hell?” I pull back and crouch down into ass-kicking mode. I’m perfectly capable of defending myself out here. That wasn’t always the case, but since having to leave my old life behind and reinvent myself, I’ve been taking online self-defense classes. Yes, they work, and yes, I am a badass bitch. “You’re not over sixty, you toad. You better get back in your car and leave. I’m warning you. Don’t make me get my pet crawfish out. You’ll get a double ass kicking then.”

One brow goes up. He stares at me, looking like the devil and god of death. He’s exceptionally unmoved and unafraid, even by the threats of the crawfish. He’s so super freaking hot in that black on black on black against frosty blue eyes, black hair, sharp features, and a really tall, muscular body.

This guy might not be over sixty, but he’s a different number entirely. As in, he’s a ten.

He’s clean and polished, but there’s also something extremely terrifying about him. Something…off.

Whatever it is, it appeals to me in all the wrong ways.

Don’t lecture me about my past, throwing all sorts of red flags about guys that are off. My ex happened to have zero red flags and was totally normal. Until he wasn’t. He wasn’t big, mean, or scary-looking. He wasn’t the least bit frosty. He was warm and personal, and even my family liked him. He duped us all. With him, what you saw wasn’t what you got.

There’s something about this stranger that says I’m going to get exactly what I see.

That said, criminals are apparently my thing in a subliminal, unconscious sort of way. I hope this guy made his money in legit, safe, non-environmentally-and-other-people-harming ways.

Still, I get alarm bells.

I also get va-jay-jay bells.

No.Those are not a thing. My lady bits can’t buzz loud enough or wild enough to make actual noise. I think.

The not-over-sixty hottie sticks out one meaty paw. “Beau Taves.” It kind of sounds like Bow Toes, and I do my best not to choke on a sudden burst of laughter. Is he for real, or are we both using fake names? “My code word is crawfish, so I must be at the right place.”

“No. There’s been a mistake.” I give him my best feral expression. It probably looks like I’m grinning a welcome at him. At five-foot-four and barely a hundred pounds, all blonde and freckled and wearing one of my prairie dresses, I’m about as intimidating as a hangnail.

He looks confused as he pulls out his phone. He does a scrolling thing with the screen—he must have a really good phone plan because there isn’t much reception out here unless you’re on the Wi-Fi, and I have to have a satellite dish up on the roof to give me that much.

He flashes the app, which shows the contract he’s already filled out ahead of time, at me. There, clearly, is a message from me giving him the date and time to arrive and directionsout to the acreage. He raises a brow and stays dreadfully silent. He’s one of those, I realize. One of those too tall, too dark, too handsome, too quiet all the time, unnerving types. He does all of that on purpose. I mean…most of it. I suppose he can’t help how he looks.

Never mind, he’s rich. Of course he can help it.

That suit, which fits his tall, tall, exceptionallytallframe like a freaking glove, helps a lot. I recognize the designer. I thought the price tag was five grand, but it is probably closer to eight grand. It’s best to stand here and pretend I don’t know anything about clothes. I’m just a country bumpkin renting out half of her bed for a single night to pay the bills. It’s just little old me here, poor and dressed in rags, and he’s the dark prince charming with all the money, coming to save me.

Fuck. That.

But guys get off on it, and those guys are my clients, so…

I can pretend.

I’m great at pretending.

Except right now.

Right now, my face is red hot, and when I blush, I look more like a sunburned tomato left out in the boiling sun a few too many hours in addition to being scorched on a super hot North Dakota summer day.

“N—no.” Shit. I hate when I stammer. I do not stammer. There’s something about this guy and the way he just stands there looking all amused and not one bit confused, flustered, or off-guard now that has me tongue-tied. Also, does he have to be sodisastrously good-looking?“There’s been a mistake. You’re not over sixty. I exclusively only allow men over sixty to do this.”

At least he frowns now as he scrolls back a few pages and brings up his profile. He taps the screen andgroans.

That groan sounds like it comes from the toes and travels all the way up the six-foot-three or so frame. It rattles out andscrapes out. It’s fully formed and is deliciously and devastatingly sexy. I’ve never heard a more pleasing sound in my life.

Ugh, biology and hormones sometimes disgust me. I blame them entirely for this reaction I’m having right now, though reaction is a light word. The inside of my body feels like a chemistry lab about to explodeviolently.

“I messed up when I made my profile. Instead of saying thirty-six, it reversed the numbers and said sixty-three.”

Thirty-six. Thirty freaking six. There’s no way this guy is thirty-six.

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