Page 2 of Valkyrie Confused

“I said you’re early. As inwayearly.” His English only carries the faintest hint of an accent. He stretches and scratches his abs, and… Are all Greek men this sexy?

Not from what I’ve seen this far.

I check my phone, which automatically set to local time when I landed. “It’s ten fifty-one. I’m nine minutes early.“ I let a hint of irritation seep into my tone. I’m this guy’s boss. He doesn’t get to give me attitude. “I’ve been traveling for almost twenty-four hours, and I’ve been awake that entire time. I’m exhausted, I smell like feet, and I want to see my property, unpack, and crash, not necessarily in that order.”

He hops over the rail, to land beside me with aclop. “Okay. I forgive you.” He sticks one hand in his pocket, driving the waistband of his jeans even lower—not that I’m staring—and comes up with a key. It doesn’t look very secure; it’s like the old-timey ones that unlock jail cells in old Western movies. “Here you go. Your apartment is in the last building, second floor.”

I close my palm around the key and look from him to my luggage and back again. I can’t ask him to help me carry them upstairs, but I also can’t climb two sets of stairs withthat, when my knees are already about to give way.

“I’m messing with you.” He chuckles, and it’s so… earthy. His eyes twinkle, the sun catching the warm amber color and making them almost yellow. Gold, even. “Go on up, and I’ll bring your stuff,” he says.

“Thank you.” Is my sigh of relief too needy?

I drag my feet up the stairs. Does my ass look good in these jeans?

I don't care. Still, I toss my hair over my shoulder and sneak a peek.

The hot guy carrying my luggage beams another toothy grin my way. Yeah, I could be working out twenty-four-seven, and he'd still be way out of my league. As inway.

I return his smile—God, I haven't brushed my teeth since yesterday morning, New York time—and stomp the rest of the way up.

The key slides into the lock and turns without snagging, despite looking old and rusty, and the door doesn't creak as it glides open to reveal the dreamy living-room-slash-dining area from the pictures I fell in love with. As expected, the space is a little smaller than it looked in the ad, but it feels cozy, not snug. To be honest, with this view, I wouldn't care if it were the size of a broom closet.

”You have a small kitchenette—hotplate, microwave, coffee maker—but the actual, fully-stocked kitchen is downstairs.” Hot Guy brushes past me and heads for the hall closetat the other end of the room. “It gets chilly in the evening, so better not pad down there in your PJs.”

The previous owners warned me that the weather here isn’t what we see in movies. The high altitude makes for warm summers and cold rest-of-the year. Well, not New-York-cold, but Greece-cold. Which is sweater-and-sleeveless-puffer-jacket weather in the fall. I don’t think I’ve ever worn a sleeveless puffer jacket in my life, but I bought one, just in case.

Hot Guy goes on, oblivious to my inner monologue. “There's also a small fridge for snacks, and you can always call me and ask me for anything you need." He waggles his eyebrows, the expression so blatantly flirty it has to be a joke, and I feel my lips tugging upward.

“Anything?” I ask before I can stop myself. The smirk I was going for is distorted by a yawn.

He chuckles. “Anything at all.” He slides open the double panes, lifts my hard-shell suitcase onto the shelf, and tries its clasps.

“Wait.” I seriously don't need him seeing the vibrator TSA dug out and placed on top of my previously perfectly folded clothes. “I'll do that myself. Just need to catch my breath first.”

He turns to face me. “What you need is a shower, so you stop smelling like feet—your words, not mine.” He points to the door on his left. “Bedroom's in here. Comes with anen suitebathroom. Get rid of the airplane gunk and take a nice long nap. I'll give you a tour when you get up.”

I mumble athank you, though it's possible I only think it, as he leads me to the bedroom with both hands on my shoulders. His hands are warm even through my sweater. They're strong, too. Big. Sturdy. Sexy, like the rest of him.

He can go through my suitcase. He can go through all my suitcases. He can do anything he wants.

He points to the king-size metal-frame bed and the fluffy white towels folded neatly on it. “Towels.” The bathroom door is open, and he steers me through, to the square bathtub taking up half the room. “I suggest a shower, because falling asleep in the tub can be lethal.” He motions at the array of toiletries along the rim of the tub. “These are the type we offer the guests. I can take you to the store tomorrow, to get anything else you need.”

I nod, suddenly extremely sleepy. The buzz of the trip has worn off, and another yawn threatens to dislocate my jaw.

I use my palm to hide it and turn to face him. ”Thank you,” I say.

He bows his head, and his curls shimmer oddly. “My pleasure.”

I wait for a heartbeat, but he makes no move to leave. Am I supposed to tip him, too? Won't know unless I ask. ”Do I tip you?”

His laugh is masculine and melodic and makes my insides tingle. If I weren't exhausted and he didn’t work for me, I might make a move.

Nah. I wouldn't. Because I’m me, and me is chicken shit when it comes to sexy men with melodic laughs.

“You don't tip me,” he says. “I'm waiting to see if you'll keel over.”

I wave him off with an eyeroll. “I'm fine.”

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