Page 7 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

“I didn’t say that. All I said was that it’s not safe for you to stay here.”

The kid, perhaps sensing the tension in the room, exclaimed, “Mama, my socks are wet.”

She glanced down. “Take them off and hang them in the bathroom.”

He hurried down the hall, and she stalked closer, lowering her voice. “You don’t even know me. We’ll be fine.”

“There are guest cabins at the ranch. You guys can stay there until the roof’s fixed.”

She stared at me, maybe waiting for a punchline, maybe expecting me to say something to paint her in the light of damsels in distress. When I didn’t continue, she took a deep breath, the kind meant to reset the conversation, and repeated, “Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but we’ll be fine.”

I didn’t push, but it took everything in my power not to. I’d been accused of being cold. The last woman I’d dated told me I had “the emotional availability of a cement slab.” I never had strong emotional reactions to things or people. But this frustrating, gorgeous celestial being in woman form had me feeling all kinds of things. Things I’d rather not name. I’d be lying if I said her stubbornness didn’t make me respect her more, despite it infuriating me. Her refusal to take help was almost admirable.

I started to walk back to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” she asked. The sentence sounded more like an accusation than a question.

“I need to get my tools to deal with the hole in your ceiling.”

Maverick was back in the front room, now barefoot, looking up at me like he was sizing me up for a duel.

“Are you a real cowboy?” he questioned, face dead serious.

I glanced down at my mud-streaked jeans, then at my hands, which were so callused I barely felt the hammer anymore.

“Sometimes,” I replied. “Mostly, I sit at a desk and do paperwork.”

He considered this before asking a follow-up. “Can you ride a horse?”

“Better than I can drive a truck.”

He puffed out his chest. “I’m going to be a cowboy when I grow up.”

I glanced at his pajamas which had cowboy hats and boots on them. “It looks like you already are.”

His face lit up like I’d just handed him the keys to Disneyland, and something in my chest softened without permission. The kid was impossible not to like.

As I walked past him to my truck to grab my tool bag, I heard him stage-whisper to his mom, “I think he could fight a bear.”

I didn’t hear Felicity’s response, but I did hear her laugh. The sound curled around me like smoke—sexy, addictive, and probably just as bad for my health. I pushed those thoughts from my head as I grabbed my toolbox and headed back inside. I tried to keep my focus on the tangible problems as I went back into the house—wet drywall, a splintered joist, the rickety porch stairs that would probably claim my ankle before the night was over.

But as I began patching the ceiling, using cardboard from one of her moving boxes, I couldn’t drown out the constant noise. Felicity had gone from barely speaking to me to talking nonstop, filling every gap with nervous energy.

She kept up a running commentary about the house, “It’s got a lot of vintage charm, right? By ‘vintage’ I mean ‘falling apart,” the neighborhood, “Do you get trick-or-treaters out here, or just wild turkeys?” and the town in general, “Do you know if there’s a decent pizza place, or is that just a pipe dream in this area?” She bounced from topic to topic, never quite letting me get a word in. Not that I wanted to.

Pet peeve #567: small talk. Or big talk. Or any sort of unnecessary talking. 99.9% of the population would improve my opinion of them by shutting the hell up. This woman happened to be the exception to that rule. She was the .001% percent that had me fighting a smile, anticipating what would come out of her pretty mouth next.

The whole time I worked, she hovered below me. When she finally took a breath, the absence of her voice was so jarring I glanced down at her to make sure she was okay. She stared up at me expectantly, as if I was suddenly going to share some of my thoughts and opinions. I turned my attention back to the ceiling. If that’s what she was waiting on, she was going to be deeply disappointed.

Eventually, she just asked, “Are you always this chatty?”

I didn’t even look down. “Usually less.”

She must have thought I was kidding, because she laughed again, a little incredulously. “Well, that’s a new one. Most men can’t wait to tell you their life story.”

Then she was hanging around the wrong men. Any guy who wasn’t hanging on her every word was a fucking moron.

She was quiet for a second, then finally asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you are just a ray of sunshine?”