Kitten.He’s called me that twice now, and somehow it feels more meaningful than a drunkensweetheart.“Well”—my tone pitches higher with embarrassment as I pull away and twist the doorknob—“come on, Toto. Time for you to go home, buddy.”
Tail wagging nonstop, he follows me to the truck. When I pull on the handle, a huge, warm hand swallows mine. My pulse races and I feel that damn flutter again.
“Allow me,” his deep voice resonates above my head. Opening the door, Connor gives another command. “In.”
Me or the dog? Because I have to say I’m really fighting this attraction right now, and it’s a losing battle. I think this man knows it, too.
The thud of the door latching breaks me from my internal struggles. Before I can take a step back, Connor brushes a thick finger to my forehead where the paper clip was. “Take care, Rosanna.”
Stunned, I watch him in silence as he gets in his huge, black truck and takes off. How’d he know my—oh. Duh. I signed it on the contract.
Well, time to get back to work. I reach for the door and groan. “He left his jacket.”
I wonder if this means I’ll see him again.
Chapter three
Connor
RosannaTaylor.
That’s her name. The sassy manager with the ringless finger and neat handwriting who invaded my thoughts the entire drive home.
And now, three days later while I’m rocking on the front porch of my Craftsman-style house and sipping coffee as the sun peeks over the horizon in the cool of the morning, she’s still on my mind. Toto’s, too, if his listless position at my feet is any indication. I can’t believe he wouldn’t listen to any of my commands in front of her. Damn dog’s been glued to my side since he was a pup and then decides to drop me like a hot potato for some woman.
Can’t say that I blame him, though. Rosanna is extremely beautiful with dark brown hair to the middle of her back and satin gray eyes that captivated me. When I wasn’t looking at the seam of her lips, that is.
Mhmm...that mouth. Watching her put my information on the contract with her pretty handwriting, I wanted to do filthy things to that mouth as much as I wanted to cherish it. I imagined feeding her dinner, then feeding her my cock.Inch by inch, she’dswallow as much of me as she could before I gave her my cum.
Instead, I forced myself to be satisfied with letting my eyes explore what my hands couldn’t touch, and now the memory of her dainty frame drowning in my jacket just won’t leave me. The way she skirted around my question. The determination in her eyes as she said, “I’m working on it.”
I’m working on it.My face tightens when I think of the bruises that have no doubt faded into a greenish-yellow hue by now. What kind of worthless man would lay his hands on a woman like that?
Silas. That’s who. Not her husband, but maybe a boyfriend.
I squeeze the metal coffee mug, imagining it’s his throat beneath my fingers. That faceless pussy better not have put his hands on her again. If he did, I’ll—
Mreow!Whiskers tickle my face as Bagheera jumps onto my shoulders and headbutts me, angling for a bit of affection and effectively halting my mental tirade. I place my mug on a barrel table to my right and concede to his demand, stroking his sleek, black fur as his purr rumbles in my ear.
“What do you think, Baggy?” I’ll take it to my grave and never tell my older brother Amos, but he’s got that stupid nickname for my cat stuck in my head. “Should I take in another stray, or should I give her a chance to leave him on her own?”
I can’t help it. I’ve taken in more than a fair amount of animals in need of tender loving care over the years. Hell, even kept two of them. I’ve had Toto for four years and Bagheera about half that or so.
Baggy. He was just a tiny, helpless kitten when I found him outside my parents’ place and brought him home to live with me. Tiny, yet feisty. So reminiscent of Rosanna. I’ve never taken a woman under my wing, though.
Despite the Shay tradition.
Or maybe because of it.
This is my curse—my inner struggle with who I am. At twenty-five years old, my dad kidnapped my mom—in keeping with our family heritage—and brought her home to be a mother to his son Amos. I was born five years later. And, at the age of forty-six, Amos did the same thing to his wife. Kidnapped her in the dead of night and spirited her away to a house he’d had built just for her.
Here I am at thirty-seven, just a little over halfway between the ages my dad and brother were when they claimed their women, and more than ready for a family of my own. I can’t fault them for the way they’ve gone about falling in love, because their methods worked. Tried and true, it’s been the same for every Shay male who’s ever claimed a bride. I don’t know that I feel the same way, though.
At least, part of me doesn’t want to.
It’s the other part of me that I fight to keep tucked away. The part that wants to take a woman and bind her to me in all the ways a man possibly can.
This is why I keep women at a distance and am damn near a recluse, except for when I’m delivering my furniture. If I take in a woman and get too close to her, I’ll never let her go.
