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I skipped dinner too, nothing new there but I wonder if that’s what’s made me so spacey?
No, it was definitely something in the air before that storm hit. Something that made me feel more than just ‘spacey’.
The chime of the doorbell jolts me wide awake, last night’s abandonment and fantasy suddenly replaced with real-life anxiety.
Everything my Dad said about drifters and needing to keep the place locked up comes flooding back to me.
But so does what he said about the Air-con repair guy making an appearance.
The bell chimes again, and I puff air out of my cheeks, almost falling over as I try to get out of bed, tangled up still in the damned sheet.
I find my Japanese silk robe but opt for making whoever it is wait while I slip on my T-shirt and track pants, easing into slippers as I get to the top of the stairs.
But the outline of the man I see through the glass of the front door makes me stop dead in my tracks.
I hear myself trying to gulp, but the raspiness of my tongue against a dry mouth is all I’m getting.
I can’t even make out the outline of his head, not until he takes a step back.
He’s freakin’ huge.
About fantasy man size, I’d say.
His V-shape fills the whole doorway, which is solid frosted glass but I can make him out just fine so far.
I feel my breath shiver as I start to go down the stairs, that feeling from last night getting stronger with each step until my knees are practically knocking by the time I get to the door.
I sense him seeing my own shape through the glass, also sure I hear a low sound, like an animal.
Maybe the guy takes his dog to work?
I should ask who it is, I should do a ton of things but my hand once again has a life of its own. Betraying all my sensibilities by yanking the door open.
Ripping my present open the night before Christmas…
I study his obvious pant bulge through thick denim jeans first, then my eyes move up, taking in his thick muscular frame which is straining against a blue T-shirt that makes my eyes cross trying to take all of him in at once.
I hear myself gasp aloud, almost whimpering before I can lift my head enough to see his face.
A heavy, tanned, and chiseled jaw has a dusting of stubble which shifts like dark sand as he opens his mouth to say something.
My eyes move to his, it’s the same dark eyes I saw in my fantasy. The same shaggy thick, dark hair that has-
“You have leaves in your hair,” I remark, narrowing my eyes and even standing on tippy toes just to be sure.
Yep. We have those out back.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached up and pulls a twig with some leaves from his hair, tossing it behind him.
“Better?” he asks, his voice making my legs go soft again, it’s so deep. So rich, like the light in his eyes it makes me want to listen to it all day as I just stare into that brooding look.
I feel my head nodding, my mouth’s gaping now and I’m pressing my legs together like I need to pee, but it’s only to keep myself standing upright.
That urge to get on all fours is back again, Mr. Fantasy has just walked out of my dreams and onto my front porch.
“I’m Noah,” he says finally, thrusting out a huge hand that my fingers only manage to wrap around a couple of his before they cover all of mine.
“Faith,” I squeak, feeling giddy now, wishing I’d eaten.
Wondering how many of these fingers I could-
“I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here,” I say nervously, trying to make small talk as I refuse to let go of his hand.
“Get here,” he parrots like he’s suddenly in a trance of his own.
“To fix the air conditioning,” I reply, noting his unusual suitcase looking toolbox with my eyes before I dive back into his.
Deep, endless eyes. So deep I can’t even swim there anymore. I have to just drown in them.
“Air conditioning,” he drones, looking confused but nodding a little before his brow cocks in recognition, a sly grin playing on his lips. Two rows of perfect, brilliant white teeth reveal a warm and intoxicating smile that matches every other part of the man.
He’s freaking perfect.
Tugging at his fingers, I practically pull him into the house. “It’s upstairs. In my room,” I tell him, noting his low groan of approval that’s nearly masked by the sound of his heavy boots on the wooden floor.
“Bedroom,” he says in that same monotone like he’s stuck for words or something.
Maybe he’s not too bright, or maybe just a man of few words. Who cares? Look at the man!
