Page 2 of The Stars in the Sky
—and literally ran, full body, full bore, into a naked, wet man, who staggered with the impact of my weight against him. My breasts hit his back, my legs straddled the sides of his, and I grabbed onto his soaking nude waist to keep from falling. The front of my shirt, my shorts, and my legs got wet from the water on him.
"The fuck?" he grunted.
"Ohmigod, I'm so sorry," I started, as I jumped back immediately, hands up like I was being arrested, and then I got a look at him. He turned around to look at me, hands on hips, completely unabashed at wearing his birthday suit.
Well, this was interesting.
He was totally naked, as in just stepped out of the shower naked. He had not even had a chance to grab his towel, he was so naked. Did I mention that he was naked? And he was standing there, glaring at me, dripping on a bathmat, with the water that had not rubbed off on me running in rivulets down his legs.
I couldn't tell you what I noticed first about him, except that he was belongs-in-a-naughty-magazine's-centerfold attractive, but I’ll give it a shot. I stared at him from his head to his toes.
He was really tall, like at least six inches taller than me, and I'm a not-short five foot ten.
His hair? Longish, wavy, wet (obviously), and a lush, dark brown.
Deep, dark, chocolate brown eyes glared at me, rimmed in enviable thick lashes that curled.
His classically handsome face had strong eyebrows, a straight nose, and high cheekbones, with hollows underneath, and yummy stubble along his square jaw.
His body? Tan everywhere. In other words, although this was a farm, he didn’t have a farmer tan. And, since he was naked, as I might have mentioned, I could tell. He had a brawny chest, defined arms, a washboard waist, and strong legs.
And, his junk. Yep. There. Unlike a turtle, it was not hiding in a shell. He stood at half-staff and boy, full-staff would be a treat. His junk was the kind of junk that you used feet rather than inches to measure. As in more than half a foot, unerect. Well beyond.
A fucking gorgeous man.
Totally pissed at me.
I so knew how to make an entrance. I tried to salvage the situation, by mumbling "Janine told me I could use this bathroom," but he interrupted.
"Ever think of knocking?" he snarled, as he reached for a white towel and wrapped it around his waist, now looking like an ad for razor blades.
"I'm sorry," I said, aiming for sincerity. "It's been a long drive and I really have to pee." This last part came out of my mouth desperately.
"Go down the hall, there's another bathroom. I'm using this one." And he pushed me out, by physically pushing my shoulders, and shut the door.
Way to start the interactions with my fellow staff.
I took off running down the hall where I found the bathroom and relief. All was well, finally.
As I headed back down the hallway, his bathroom door opened and he came out, dressed in dark blue Wrangler jeans, with a belt and a huge belt buckle, a tight, faded blue t-shirt, and cowboy boots, hair still messy, curly, and wet.
He looked me up and down. Then he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a can of Copenhagen and stuffed a wad of chew in his cheek, staring at me.
Disgusting.
He turned and started walking away, muttering to himself, “Another fucking liberal.”
“Hey!” I yelled. “What’s wrong with that?”
My politics were extremely liberal, but so what? How could he tell? I wore normal clothes—my denim short-shorts, Tom's shoes, and a white cami that was probably see-through due to my literal run-in with Mr. Shower. I'd have to change.
Well, I suppose my nonconservative status was obvious, given my tattoos and my eyebrow piercing. I normally dyed my hair in colors that were not found in nature. But right now, it was bleached blonde and would probably stay that way for the summer. Naturally, my medium brown hair matched my medium brown eyes. I was skinny, with long legs (it was genetics, my parents were that way) but I had some boobage going on (again, genetics).
But how dare he judge me so quickly? And what do my politics have to do with my job?
He stopped, turned around and looked at me again, eyes traveling from head to toe and back again. Then he spoke.
"Darlin', life's too short to list all the things that are wrong with being a liberal," he drawled and sauntered out the front door and down the steps of the ranch house.
Oh, now I was pissed at him for being such a gross, judgmental asshole. But I didn't want to get into a fight in the first five minutes of my new job so I kept my mouth shut. For now. But this run-in did nothing good for my first day jitters.
Still, I couldn't help but watch him go. He had a damn sexy walk, almost like he owned the land he was walking on. Now, I'm not one who goes for cowboy hats and big belt buckles—my favorite type of music isanything but country—still, I couldn't help but notice that he filled those Wranglers out well. While I was still appreciating the craftsmanship of his jeans, he turned around. "This is Reagan Country, and don't forget it."
He turned back around just as quickly and kept going until he was out of sight.
Reagan Country? Was he kidding? Was he even born during the Reagan years?
Ugh.
Motherfucker!
