Page 8 of Summer People
All the while, her hands never stop flapping. We’re flaton the floor, yet she’s flailing, hitting herself and me in the process.
“What in the holy hell is the problem?” Deciding it’s best to keep my hands to myself rather than try to stop her, I drop them to my sides, leaving the young superstar on top of me.
“There’s a spider on me.” She shudders, though the spastic movements finally slow.
I survey the silky blond strands, and sure enough, I spot the little guy. Gently, I pick it off her head, then fling it away.
“You touched it with your hands?” Huge blue eyes fixate on my fingers.
I shake my head. “They’re everywhere. Better get used to them.”
“I hate spiders,” she whispers, her voice shaky.
No shock there. I smirk. “Ready to go home yet, Princess?”
CHAPTER FOUR
libby
“Ready to go home yet, Princess?”
Heat rushes my cheeks and anger and embarrassment war with one another as I stare down at the giant of a man who broke into my house and then saved me from the spider.
I hate being called princess. But I hate spiders more.
I think.
Plump lips lift in a smirk of sorts. The expression is at odds with the man’s cranky aura. It’s almost like he’s angered by my presence, yet he’s inmyhouse.
I press my palms flat against his chest and try to ignore the hard muscles that flex beneath my fingers as I push off him. Once I’ve extricated myself, I swipe at my legs. Maybe I can brush off the feel of his touch. God, I hope so.
“I am home.” Miraculously, I refrain from tacking the wordassholeon under my breath. I’m good at holding my tongue. I’ve been doing it for years.
With my luck, this guy is a reporter or would be happy to call one up. Everyone has a price, and I imagine as soon as the papers discover I’m here, he’ll give them any tidbit I offer.
Brown eyes flecked with gold dance, probably at my expense. “We’ll see about that.” His eyes remain trained on me as he gets to his feet.
It’s not until he’s standing beside me that I realize just how big he is. Wide shoulders, big arms folded across his chest, narrow hips, and thick thighs parted in a way that only magnifies his presence. He takes up twice as much space as I do, above me and to the side. He’s like a cloud, hovering about and blocking out the rest of the room. If not for the scowl he wears as well as a cowboy wears a pair of Wranglers, I’d actually enjoy the view.
He’s older than I am by at least a handful of years and nice enough to look at for anyone who likes that whole dark, broody thing.
I certainly don’t. Not that I like the Hollywood look either.
An image of Brad, dressed in a tuxedo, jeering at me, flits through my mind. The thought is quickly followed by a shudder.
I think it’s just men in general that I don’t like.
If I’ve learned anything recently, it’s that men can’t be trusted. Especially men who call me princess.
I’m just about to tell him where he can stick it when my door flies open for the second time in as many minutes, and a little girl yells, “Fisher! What’s taking so long?”
“I told you to stay in the car.” His voice holds no malice, though, as he turns and shakes his head.
When he steps back, I get a better view of the pint-sized intruder. She’s about half his height, with golden blond hair done in two braids. When her blue eyes land on me, they widen comically, and her mouth falls open in an O.
“Fisher.” She brings a hand to the side of her mouth like she’s trying to hide her loudly whispered words. “Did you know that Elizabeth Sweet is standing right in front of you?”
I snort. She’s kind of adorable. “You can call me Libby.”
