Page 13 of Sunshine
I look at the rolling pin in my hand, before narrowing my eyes back on him. I nod. He has a nice deep, slightly graveled, voice too.One that if I concentrate a little too much on, I feel low in my belly.
“Did you really just say I could be a model?”
My jaw clenches. “I wasn’t talking to you,” I grumble, and he looks around. I glance at the rooster hidden from his view down the hall, who’s taken to pecking at the trim, and add, “It’s okay, Jake, it’s just our neighbor. You don’t have to load the shotgun.” Jake’s timing, ever perfect, has him looking up at me with a cocked head and then the damn bird crows or cock-a-doodles or whatever you call the horrid sound coming from the traitorous mother-clucker.
When I look back at the man, he’s full-on grinning. “Yeah, Jake, no shotgun necessary.” His gaze holds mine as he says it, crinkles deepening at the corners showing his amusement, but he says nothing more.
“Alarm clock,” I mumble, glaring at Jake. “Reminding me to take the chicken out of the freezer for dinner tomorrow. Nothing like a good roast chicken.”
“Well, anyway, I was concerned. The place has been empty a while. So… you’re okay?”
I look past him at the open door. I hadn’t heard a vehicle, so his neighbor story seems legit.
“Yes, of course I’m okay. Why are you asking?” I huff, annoyed by his question but still distracted by his looks. “What is it you want?” My words hinting at impatience, I look at my watch, an antique from Gran’s jewelry box, which is broken, but he needn’t know it. “It’s teatime.”
I say teatime because clearly this tatted, muscular, cover-model biker-man wouldn’t know what timethatwas and it’s the first thing that comes to my sex-addled mind.
The man’s quick grin might make him look sort of boyish if he weren’t so big, tatted, and thickly bearded. The cottage being small, less than nine hundred square feet, makes it easy enough for me to see his big hands too, which are covered in nicks, calluses, paint and more artwork. Yes, his tattoos are definitely artwork.A working man, I hypothesize, who works outa lot. And currently needs to be hosed down as he’s glistening with sweat.
Gahhh.
Hosed down?
He points. “I’m renting the trailer down the road while I build a house. Are you Tessa by chance?”
“Tess, but yes,” I reply. I vaguely recall Gran mentioning this and that he’d paid up front for the year. This guy looks very handy. My middle hums, and it angers me. Men are scum. Even working men with big sexy arms, sleeve tattoos, voices that tickle intimate places, and deliciously narrow hips. That last thought sends my eyes downward, and then, embarrassed, right back up as his grey jogging pants give me more information than I need.
It doesn’t matter that this man is nothing like Gary… Not at all. Because all men are the same. No matter if they are mountainous and craggy and biker-ish… and, um, well-hung.
He clears his throat awkwardly.
My eyes land on his mouth which quirks up on one side.
“Isn’t teatime in late afternoon?” His brows are high, curved like dark orangey caterpillars, and he’s clearly judging me. “And in the UK?” One of those caterpillars drops so the other looks arched. “Are you British? Cause you don’t sound it.”
I gather a breath and look skyward as if only the man upstairs himself can save me from this conversation.
“No, seriously, it’s after ten o’clock at night,” he adds. “It’s even too late for high tea.”
“Pardon?” I frown, looking outside again as if I don’t believe him—cause I don’t—and rub my forehead. When had the day passed? The sun is gone. “I…” I’m speechless a moment until I look at his face again, feeling a pull of attraction. “If it’s after ten o’clock, what the hell are you doing at my door? It’s rude to come calling at this hour! And how the hell would you know what time tea is and what high tea is?”
He does something very irritating then. He tips his head back and laughs. It’s deep and throaty and that connection his voice has to my intimate parts has got nothing on his laugh. My jaw slackens at his audacity but then as I look at his throat, his deep alluring laugh making my belly twist with need, I shut my mouth with a click of my teeth.
“Do forgive me, your highness. I’ll be sure to check it’s the appropriate hour before stopping by to rescue a pretty lady from a potential home invasion.”
A pretty lady? Hm. For a moment I’m distracted by this comment and then I realize it’s just flattery. I’ve been cleaning for the last few hours. And these days, even on my best day, I don’t think anyone would call me pretty.
Haggard seems more apt.Used up, worn down, pinched, wearied—pick an adjective.
I snort in reply, but somewhere deep inside me, my inner teen girl giggles. “You didnotrescue me. In fact, you can note for the future that I’ll never need you to rescue me, m’kay?” I pause a moment, wondering why he’s jogging so late. “And why on earth are you out jogging at this hour anyway?”
His wide warm smile almost coaxes one out of me.“This is the weirdest conversation I have ever had. I’m a bit of an insomniac so I jog to wear myself out.”
I make a noise in my throat at his confession, attempting to squelch the thought of the best way he could be tired out. Dirty, dirty, sex. I curse Paige in my mind because her book is clearlyturning me into a horny horndog. And now I can hear her voice too.You could use a fun, no- strings fling, Tessie. And big, burly, biker-ish men are notorious for no-strings fun.I tune out the imaginary voice of my best friend and concentrate on the real man in Gran’s cottage.
“Well then, I thank you for your gallantry, however misplaced, now please, run along. It’s late…”
He interrupts, looking past me. “And you need your tea. And Jake is somewhere in here, debating on loading the shotgun.”
