Page 6 of Star-Crossed
Cedarwood. Jasmine. Clove. Lavender. And yes, patchouli.
But what blasted past Gemma was something closer to what gusted through the windows of his work truck if he happened to be downwind of Fertile Myrtle’s Manure in the late-summer heat.
Definitely not the worst thing he’d ever smelled, but nothing you’d want to dab on your pulse points.
“I know, right?” Gemma asked, picking up on the reaction he’d tried to suppress. Reaching up to her shoulder, she grabbed a length of the brightly colored scarf looped around her neck and pulled it across her mouth and nose. “Come on in,” she said in muffled invitation.
“Actually, I thought I’d just go ahead and get started.” Cy jerked his chin over to the side of the old house, where a squatting plumber showing two inches of butt crack stared at the ground and scratched his head.
Which was probably a nice vacation for his balls.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come in and see—”
“No,” Cy said, assuring himself it was his eagerness to try out his new toy,notthe threat of sharing enclosed space with Lyra McKendrick that made him balk.
It hadn’t ended well for them last time.
Well, for him.
Triumphant Seamen Cream Cowhadn’t exactly been the headline he’d been hoping for after setting several division records in the bitter brawl with Townsend Harbor High’s sworn rivals, the Spokane High Wolfpack.
As the running back who’d scored sixty-four of the seventy-two points, Cy had been riding high on that fateful trip home. Otherwise, he might not have acted on the dare that had ended so disastrously.
“You don’t even want to see where the leak started?” Gemma asked, looking puzzled. “The plumber already pulled up part of the basement floor, and—”
A crash made Gemma whirl around just as a sharp “Goddamn it, Larry!” was growled in the background.
Something small, fast, and dark shot out between Gemma’s calves, making her steady herself on the doorframe.
Cy hunched and lunged just as the cat made a break for the porch railing, feeling a gust of relief when his hands closed around the warm, furry weight of its body.
At least his reflexes were still decent.
The glossy black cat promptly began yowling and death-rolling like an alligator in his grip.
“Easy there,” he said, trying to soothe the writhing bundle. “You’re all right.”
But Cy wasn’t.
The abrupt and uncalculated shift of his center of gravity had made his leg lock up. Crouched with the sole of one boot on the porch with his right knee wedged against a planter, he wouldn’t be able to stand up again without bracing himself.
Which wasn’t likely to happen with about fifteen pounds of feral feline rabbit-kicking at his unprotected wrists.
Why the hell hadn’t he put on his PPE before coming to the front door?
Because you wanted Lyra McKendrick to see your body,his unhelpful mind answered almost immediately.
And damned if that little voice didn’t have the most annoying habit of being exactly right.
However catastrophic the life-changing college car accident had been for his leg, it had been the impetus for Cy’s obsession with building his upper body. A development he told himself totally wasn’t a psychological need to compensate.
“I told you, you can’t just stand there with the door open.” The phrase’s crisp syllables had the cadence of a well-worn lecture. “If you’re not going to—”
The words snapped off just as a pair of pointy-toed high heels stepped into view.
Cy’s gaze slowly moved upward, beginning with the slim spikes of shoes that probably cost more than his first car.
His first five cars, maybe.
