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2
Eveningencroaches as I return to the house—I spent more time and money than I expected because choosing the right wine for wallowing is important. And don’t get me started on the number of ice cream flavours to pick from. I bought the hottest pre-packaged curry I could find because I couldn't eat curry around Grant; he didn't like the smell. Add wine and a juicy new book and I’ve an awesome evening ahead.
When I park my car, the lights are on, shining through the downstairs window at the front of the house. I halt, the shopping bags digging into my hands.What the?I push open the creaking front door and peer inside, aware the isolation I craved may not be good. Unable to detect anything strange, I step inside and close the door, hand on my phone. Just in case. In case of what, I don’t know. A projectile weapon? Setting the bags on the table, I listen. Nothing. Maybe I left the lights on before I left.
First things first: wine. I open a bottle of red, and rummage around for the biggest glass I can find. After a satisfying gulp or three, I pull my curry out of the pre-packed box and shove the container in the microwave. After only a minute, the smell pervades the house.
The sense of relief and freedom from standing here, away from someone else's scrutiny or criticism, engulfs as I slump on the sofa. The wine glass empties quicker than the curry cooks, and I close my eyes, soaking in the peaceful moment.
"Is this your underwear?"
I snap my eyes open, spilling my wine as I jump to my feet. Psycho-sexy driver stands at the bottom of the stairs with with damp hair and a pair of my knickers hanging off his long fingers. Not even nice underwear—the sort reserved for unsexy times of the month.
The mortifying sight of a stranger holding my flowery underwear is joined by the eye-popping sight of him standing shirtless in the house. My gaze travels from the knickers to his low-slung jeans and the tightest six-pack I’ve ever seen—in real life anyway. At least he's not spoiled his defined pecs and abs with the ugly tattoos he has on his arms. Um. What the hell? Calm down, Sky.
This man invaded my sanctuary and stole my knickers. I snatch the offending item from him, mind scrambling to form a coherent sentence. "Get out of my house before I call the police."
"Your house?"
I clear my throat, not impressed with the squeaky tone I’m favouring. "Where the hell did you come from? Did you follow me?"
"How is this your house? The cottage is a holiday rental."
"Well, my Gran's house but I'm staying here," I say, unsure why I’m justifying myself to a knicker thief.
The tired, ocean blue eyes fix on mine. "Then we have a problem."
"Why?"
"Because I'm renting the place for a month. I arrived about an hour ago and thought the last guests must’ve forgotten some items of clothing." He points at my knickers. "Then I walk downstairs and find you."
"Gran never said anything when I asked to stay."
I vaguely remember Gran’s distraction when I asked; she was shouting at her dog, and I bet she wasn't listening.
Crap.
"Well, I was here first. You have to leave," I retort.
He raises an eyebrow. "I have to leave? I've paid for the place. Have you?"
He already knows the answer judging by his growing smirk. Fine. I change tack. "You can't kick me out!"
"Stay then. But I'm having the main bedroom, and you’ll need to remove all your clothes and underwear." He pauses, fixing me with the look he tried when we were in the country lane. "From the bed I mean."
Damn my heating cheeks. "I'm not staying with you—you could be a psychopath or something."
"Or something? What's worse than a psychopath?"
An arrogant but disarmingly attractive bare-chested man stirring things that should remain unstirred, that’s what.
"You have to go," I repeat.
"Where?"
"I don't know." My heart races as I desperately try to get the upper-hand. "Climb in your penis extension of a car and find somewhere expensive."
The man laughs.Reallylaughs, not just a chuckle. He looks at me as if I'm the weirdest thing he's seen, with a genuine, open expression for once.
