Page 15 of Her Rugged Guardian

“You better and send a picture of this gorgeous hunk.”

Yeah, I would, only he’d have a knife stuck in his… man piece. The gash on his forehead had been cleaned up but I was certain he should have gone and had stitches. Although the pang of guilt was short lived.

“How dare you drink my coffee.”

The bastard had the nerve to take another sip before bothering to turn and face me, showcasing his crime. I planted one hand on my hip, glaring at him with daggers in my eyes.

“Interesting flavor,” Jake said casually. “Tastes a little moldy though.” When he dared to pour half the beloved cup down the drain, I stared in horror, unable to say anything as I gawked at him. “I need to get a new bundle of shingles so I’ll be back later, but you asked me to provide an invoice of what you mother owed for work I’ve done in the last few months, so here you go.”

The piece of paper had been folded into less than a jean pocket-sized note, the edges crimped and if I wasn’t mistaken, stained with some wretched substance. “Fine.”

He placed the dirty cup on the counter and headed in my direction with the usual swagger in his step. “Oh, and I added the cost of the new phone onto the invoice as well.” Grinning, he yanked an iPhone from his pocket.

“I thought you said I didn’t need to pay for it.”

“Nope. Not what I said.”

Oh, I wanted to smack his face.

Instead, I held my head high even though I was standing in stained feet, a baby pink robe that had seen better days, and hair that I had no doubt looked like I’d taken a tumble with a nightclub bouncer.

And not in a good way.

“You’re leaving my roof wide open?” Oh, great. That was all I could manage?

“No, Cinnamon Girl. I put a tarp on it. I’m a professional, unlike some of us.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged and almost brushed against my shoulder as he walked by. Damn if his masculine scent didn’t waft into my nostrils, the scent of woodsy pine and fresh rainwater and… a light musk filtering into my nostrils. The same crackle of electricity I’d experienced before became a full-fledged jolt of current, only this time not from a thunderstorm but a machine used for electric shock therapy. I resisted groaning at the analogy and the subsequent vivid images following the thought.

“What about the hanging ceiling fan?”

“Now you want me. Oh, how nice.”

“If only a robot could take care of it for me.”

“Just so you know, pink isn’t your color. I’m thinking more of a vixen red to match your personality.” He chuckled darkly and walked out. All the while, my beloved baby boy did everything in his power to betray me, his tail thumping against the chippedcheap floor in happiness. “Don’t worry, Cinnamon Girl. I’ll be by later to finish installing it.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Moose’s tail thump stopped the moment Jake walked from the room, replaced with a morose sound. I shifted my glare to my big furball, pointing my finger at him.

“I don’t want to hear anything from the peanut gallery. Not a single woof.”

I eyeballed the invoice he’d left on the kitchen island, hesitating before bothering to walk closer. With a little too much flair, I yanked it from the counter, forcing myself not to rip it into shreds, yet fighting with the frayed edges in trying to get it open. When I did, I was certain I was having a heart attack. Almost seven thousand dollars? Was the fucker kidding? Plus fourteen hundred dollars for a new phone? Oh, hell, no.

There was no trepidation in my angered steps as I rushed out of the kitchen, grabbing the back of Jake’s shirt before he had a chance to open the door. I was shocked that enough force in my thin arms had surfaced, I’d managed to jerk him by a full three feet.

“What the hell is the meaning of this, buster? Do you really think I’m going to buy that my mother owned you almost seven thousand dollars? And you’re not worth a fourteen-hundred-dollar phone. This place is a dump, with no evidence that you’ve done a damn thing. I should have you arrested for more than breaking into my house.”

Nothing shocked me any longer including my nasty vehemence or the grin that popped across his face.

Or the fact I overreacted as I’d done more than once around the sexy dude and lifted my arm to slap him. Only, unlike the toaster incident, his reflexes kicked mine aside. He not only snagged my forearm while my hand was a solid six inches from his chiseled face—that had more than just a dusting of scruff, making him even sexier—but also managed to shove me against the wall before I could make a single sound.

When he dared to drag my other arm over my head, now holding both my wrists in one very strong set of fingers, I hissed like some venomous snake.

I was in some crazy state of shock as he lowered his head, cocking it slightly, his heated gaze drifting back and forth beseechingly slowly. “I wouldn’t try that again if I were you, Cinnamon Girl.”

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