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The man across from her swore softly and strode to the other end of the trailer, which contained a large bed, a sofa, the kitchenette, and a built-in table with bench seats. Though compact and efficient, the effect was ruined because clothes were scattered everywhere. An empty pizza box sat on the sofa, the table was a mess of computer equipment and papers, and stacks of books lay in haphazard, uncategorized piles.
He rummaged in a half-open drawer and tossed her an oversized gray T-shirt and a blue denim shirt. “You can change into those for now.”
“I don’t need…” Bee hiccupped back a sob, somewhat appalled by the fact that she’d let down her guard in front of a stranger—and one associated with the TV production, no less.
“No need to cry over spilt coffee,” he said gruffly.
“I know, it’s just that this is a brand-new outfit, and I…well, never mind.” She lifted her head and took a breath, pulling up her deep-seated self-control to regain her composure.
“Go change,” he said.
“Really, I’m fine.”
He sighed, as if she were being bothersome on purpose, and pointed at the bathroom. Since she was getting more clammy and uncomfortable by the second, and he did owe her one, she grabbed the clothes and stalked into the bathroom. It was no neater than the rest of the trailer, with damp bath towels falling off the racks and a counter cluttered with male-oriented toiletries like heavy-duty razors and shaving soap.
Bee took off her jacket and blouse, dabbed at her damp skin, and pulled the T-shirt over her head. A little shock of awareness went down her spine as she caught a whiff; the shirt held the scent of something clean and masculine like oranges and spice. Not to mention, the cotton was as soft as a cloud—as if it had been washed countless times—and enveloped her in a voluminous mass of warmth.
She shook her head to dislodge the delightful sensation. It had just been a long time since she’d been this intimately close to a man’s clothing…or an actual living, breathing man, for that matter. She was getting distracted.
Time to move on. Nothing this morning had been going as she’d intended, but Bee knew how to pivot and adjust. And she still had a busy day ahead of her, good-smelling shirt or not.
She hitched the denim shirt over her arms and left the bathroom, feeling more than a little foolish in the getup.
He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, and vestiges of the scowl still darkening his features.
Her heart knocked against her ribs. Now that she was a bit more composed, she could actually take in his formidable physique and striking, if messy, good looks. His features were strong and sharp—thick-lashed eyes offset by angular cheekbones, black eyebrows, and a beautifully well-shaped mouth. The sun streamed through the window, threading his wavy dark hair with strands of gold and casting his face into dramatic planes of shadows and light.
A sudden familiarity struck her. Where had she seen him before? And why couldn’t she place a man who was suddenly making her all fluttery inside?
Of course, he was clearly a slob and probably had holes in his underwear, but she gave him a solid A on the Hot Grouch curve. Maybe even an A+ given the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and over his impressive biceps, and his worn jeans hugged his long legs, and his chest looked as if it were sculpted from iron and steel, and his—
Bee cleared her throat and held up her crumpled, stained clothes. “Do you have a bag I can put these in?”
He reached under the counter and handed her a plastic Target bag. She dumped her clothes in and nodded. “Thank you for your time. I accept your apology.”
“I didn’t apologize.”
She lifted her chin. “You should have. Who flings open a door in a high-traffic area without checking to see if someone is walking past?”
“Who walks right in front of a door that could open at any second?” he countered.
“Most people don’t find it necessary toflingopen a door.” Bee tied a knot in the bag and yanked it closed.
Though the whole incident had been nothing more than a silly accident, she was still rankled by her negative encounter with Clyde Constantine and the upheaval of her morning plans, not to mention upset that her new suit was utterly ruined. This man—whoever he was and super-hot though he might be—presented a convenient target for her irritation.
“Look, Mr.…” She waved her hand for him to please fill in the blank.
“Powers.”
“Mr. Powers, since it appears you just rolled out of bed and perhaps didn’t even get a good night’s sleep, I will…er, Powers? Not Adam Powers?”
He nodded.
Bee stared at him as recognition struck. In her mind’s eye, she pictured him on-screen with neatly combed hair and a clean-shaven face, wearing rectangular glasses that gave him an appealing Clark Kent vibe, and with his body clad in a well-fitted black shirt that stretched over his wide shoulders and chest—
She groaned. “Oh, dear.”
Faint amusement glimmered in his expression. His eyes, which were somewhat muted on television behind his glasses, were a striking blue-green color like tropical ocean waters or the inside of an abalone shell.
