Page 10 of Heaven Help Me

“I know. Heaven doesn’t want you here either,” he snaps back just as quickly. He drops his hands. “Okay, how about you go get unpacked and get that shower. When you’re decent, I’ll see if anything you’ve brought is usable. We can go shopping tomorrow for more clothing.”

I have no intention of letting him rifle through my clothing with his filthy hands. Okay, they aren’t filthy. In fact, they’re quite pristine. Maybe the nicest man hands I’ve seen, though to be fair, most of the man hands I’ve seen are wearing gloves so their prints won’t be traceable. Deuce’s hands have strong sinewy muscles, clipped nails, and one faint scar on his left thumb. Like he isn’t afraid to work with his hands, but he also cleans them up afterward. Deuce spins away from me as I head upstairs to the guest room and that’s all that matters. I need time away from his spicy cologne and annoying smirk.

Today certainly did not go like I thought.

A long hot everything-shower does little to ease my stress. Between the mess I left behind in New York, the favor I’ll owe Bettina for handling the things I should be dealing with and can’t, and the foreseeable future staying with Deuce, I have a lot on my mind.

Which is why I’m surprised when I wake up in a strange room several hours later. I blink, taking in my pajamas, a satin set of shorts and tank top in a deep maroon. Damn, that was one hell of a nap. I sit on the edge of the four-poster bed and try to get my bearings.

I haven’t been sleeping well. At first, I chalked it up to the stress of my job. Then when things got dicey and I transferred the role to my replacement, I blamed it on a keyed-up nervous system that didn’t know how to rest. Now I’m starting to wonder if this is just how I am. It takes forever to fall asleep because my brain is racing, and then once I do fall asleep, I wake up at two in the morning almost like clockwork. I lie there for what feels like hours before I fall back asleep, leading to an alarm waking me up groggy a few hours later. Naps are usually few and far between, but I guess the quiet of being out of the city worked a miracle.

My stomach growls. I slide off the floral quilt that looks like a grandma somewhere in time made it by hand and get to my bare feet. A quick look at the burner phone Bettina gave me tells me it’s almost six in the evening. Fucking hell. I slept the afternoon away. No wonder I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten all day.

I creep to the door and listen with my ear pressed against the ornate wood before pulling it open. I hear a clock ticking somewhere in the house, but otherwise, it’s silent. So silent it’s a little creepy. Where’s the road noise? Horns honking? People cursing each other out? I tiptoe to the top of the stairs, still not hearing Deuce. Maybe he left. Hopefully he left.

Slowly, so as not to make any sound, I descend the stairs. This house really is beautiful. The ornate molding on the stairs, along with the banister and the plush carpet on the foot tread make for a regal set of stairs. The rich color of the wallpaper makes the whole area look warm and regal. Very different from the stark opulence of my place in New York.

Just as I creep to the kitchen and think I might be able to find a snack without running into he-who-shall-not-be-named, the front door clicks open. I flatten myself against the wall and reach for my knife, only to silently curse when I realize I took it off for my shower and left it upstairs. That’s okay. I can fight with my hands if need be.

A man’s singing voice blares into the silence, comically off-key as he keeps bellowing. The volume gets louder.

“Parked in a holler…”

I push off the wall and slap a hand on Deuce’s sweaty mouth as he comes around the corner. He flails wildly with a loud yelp, effectively getting my hand off his face, but with way more drama than necessary. He rips headphones off his ears and gapes at me.

“Jesus, Valentina. You damn near killed me.”

I fold my arms across my chest and realize I should have put on a bra. Or clothes rather than flimsy pajamas.

Because Deuce is barely wearing clothes and we can’t have both of us half naked in the same room. It’s a new rule I just made up.

“You almost killed me with that awful singing,” I snap, refusing to acknowledge the intel my eyeballs are giving me.

My eyes are taking in a sweaty naked chest narrowing to a trim waist and the deep crevices of a six-pack huffing and puffing air above a pair of running shorts. My brain, on the other hand, is coming up with reasons I should be annoyed with this man, that stupid attractive physique being one of them.

He smirks at me, shaking his head slowly. A single lock of jet black hair has fallen across his sweaty forehead. It should be a chink in his armor, a flaw that makes him less attractive.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

“You really need to work on the art of a putdown.”

“I think I do that just fine.”

Deuce wipes a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist. “No, you definitely get your meaning across, but Southern women do it with a smile.”

I scowl harder. “Why should I smile when I’m insulting you?”

“Because it keeps you looking like a pretty little thing while cutting a man down to size.” He holds his hands up and skirts around me into the kitchen. “But hey, I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying if you want to fit in around here…”

I trail after him, more intent on food than this ridiculous suggestion. “Give me an example.”

He pulls a pre-made salad out of the refrigerator and two plates from the cabinet to the left of the sink. “My girl Mary London has some incredible ones.” He puts a hand to his hip and uses this weird high-pitched voice. “It’s amazing how confident you are with so little to back it up.”

I screw up my face. “That was really creepy. Please don’t do that again.”

Deuce rolls his eyes at me and gets busy making what I’m hoping is dinner. I snatch a sliced carrot off the salad while he heats up a glass container in the microwave. “Also, I thought Maggie was your girl.”

He spins toward me. “Huh?”