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"Jenny? We're home. Where are you?"
The Hendrens were coming in the front door. Cage and Jenny remained captives of each other, releasing their hands and eyes only heartbeats before his parents blustered into the kitchen.
"Oh, here you are. Hello, Cage."
Jenny jumped up, offering to get the older couple a cold drink or coffee. Cage rose to his feet, too. "I've got to be going. I just stopped by to see if you'd heard from Hal. I'll check back later. 'Bye."
There was no reason to prolong the visit. He had wanted to ask about Hal, but his main reason for coming to the parsonage had been to see Jenny.
He had seen her.
She had touched him.
Actually reached out and touched him.
He felt good.
* * *
Jenny bent over to place a sack of groceries in the backseat of her car. The Hendrens had given her the economical compact when she graduated from TCU. A long wolf whistle brought her around quickly, so quickly she almost bumped her head.
Cage was sitting astride a vicious-looking motorcycle wearing an expression that matched his whistle. A shiny black helmet was dangling from his hand. He had on a blue chambray shirt from which the sleeves had been ripped. Either the wind had tugged all the buttons from their holes, or he had left them carelessly undone. In either event, the only thing that saved him from indecency—and then just barely—was that the shirt was tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
There was nothing decent about them.
A faded red bandana was knotted around his neck. He looked like a bandit. Hell's Angels would have welcomed him with open arms and probably elected him their president.
Jenny was intrigued by the network of light brown hair that matted his chest. It fanned out over the upper muscles and grew inward toward that satiny ribbon of hair that bisected his stomach. She had a difficult time tearing her eyes away from the beguiling sight of all that tanned skin and the crisp carpet of masculine body hair.
"You're not very nice," Jenny chided insincerely.
"Thank you, ma'am."
She laughed.
"You're not very nice either," Cage countered.
"What did I do that wasn't nice?"
"You wore a tight pair of jeans that could inflame a man's imagination."
Glancing down at herself, she retorted, "Only some men. The ones with their minds in the gutter."
"Hm. I suppose that means me."
"If the shoe fits… No other man has whistled at me today."
"Then no other man caught you bending over."
She shot him an acid look. "Sexist."
"And proud to be one."
Placing her hands on her hips, she demanded, "What if I came up behind you and whistled like that?"
"I'd drag you into the bushes."
"You are incorrigible."
