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“PJ?”
“Um, yeah. Good memory.” I don’t hide my sarcasm, but I do yank my eyes away from where they’re roaming downward. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man that I find myself taking in his belt buckle and wondering how many seconds it would take me to unbuckle it. I’m betting less than three.
Stop it, stop it.
I force my eyes back to his face, which looks ten times sexier than it did this morning, and I wonder how he manages that. Must be some Schrodinger’s cat physics trick that lets him be hot and not hot at the same time.
But really just hot.
As I’m taking in the vision of him, I notice his wild eyes roaming over me—all of me—because I opened my front doorwearing a sheer tank top. My perky nipples have jumped to attention from the cool air. And the hot guy.
Not to mention that my flannel shorts are frayed enough to be very comfortable and good for sleeping. Less good for covering much of my legs.
I start to cross my arms over my chest, but then I think better of it. This is my house, and I’ll wear what I want. He can just deal with it.
And again, the urge to flirt rears up.
“What are you doing here?” He looks a little rumpled, which softens his starched appearance. It’s a much better look. His eyes are less focused and a little hazy. The genuine confusion on his face would be comical if he weren’t standing outside my front door making a hellish racket.
“I live here. What areyoudoing?” I’m hoping he’ll tell me he got lost between Archer’s house and the road south, taking him back where he came from. And I’m really hoping he doesn’t answer with the words I can already see forming on his lips.
“I’m crashing here for a couple weeks.”
“A coupleweeks? Ugh, of course you are,” I mutter. Because this is my life. Can’t get away from the kind of men who work my last nerve with their insistent, broad shoulders, financial gossip, and chess moves. Colin Hathaway standing four feet away is the last thing I need right now.
“I’m sorry.” He holds up his hands like I’ve pulled a gun on him. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just—I think the lock is jammed.”
Letting out a long exhale, I pad toward him on bare feet, holding out my hand for the key. “It’s just stubborn. Been a while since anyone used the place, and the tree over there has big roots.” I point at a live oak that’s been here longer than the Corbett family has.
“Big roots?” He squints at me, confused. Maybe he’s never spent time around plantsorcoffee.
“Yes. Roots. The things that provide nutrients to plants? They tend to grow when they’re watered,” I huff, sticking out my chest a little. Maybe I’m being confident. Maybe I’m just making a point—or specifically, two very sharp points grazing the thin fabric of my top.
“You don’t say,” he deadpans. He doesn’t attempt to hide his focus on my nipples.
Good. He tortured me with his noise. I’ll torture him with what I’ve got.
“I do say.”
“Great.”
“It’s the biggest problem with the way the property was built. All the homes and buildings here were supposed to take advantage of the environment. All the porches and balconies face east and west, with trees all around for shade.” I point, but in the dark night, not much is visible beyond the small garden between my house and the cottage.
Colin nods. “But no one realized how big the roots would get.”
“Basically, so they push up on the foundation under the houses, and sometimes the doors and windows stick.”
I jiggle the key in the lock, which is one of those European bolts that turns over three times before it unlocks. Half the time, I forget which direction to turn the key. I spend a minute or so making the same clanging noise as Colin before the bolt chugs into place and the door swings open.
“Oh!” A peculiar odor wafts from the cottage—a cross between overripe potatoes and moldy coffee grounds. I take a step back in reaction to the smell and step on a metal garden ornament shaped like a smiling snail. As I topple to the side, I reach out for anything to steady myself so I don’t faceplant, onlyto feel a strong arm wrap around my shoulders and a warm hand reach for my hip.
“Careful,” Colin says, righting me and making sure I’m steady. His hand has pushed my shirt up a couple inches and stays wrapped around my waist, his hand cool against my hot skin. A sheen of sweat coats my forehead as my face warms with embarrassment.
“Didn’t see that.” I look accusingly down at the snail, which continues grinning like a maniac. Colin removes his hand from my waist as if testing to see if I’m really steady. Then he takes his arm from my shoulders. “Thanks. Wasn’t expecting that smell. What the heck is it?”
Colin sniffs the air and seems to agree there’s something amiss, waving a hand in front of his face.
“Is that…normal?”
