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The Black Sheep of the Manning family isn’t hiding out here in Pines Peak, getting into trouble and making mistakes like they all think.
He’s here starting animal shelters and fixing housing crises.
Now I really am speechless. I hobble toward the doors, attempting to fit Animal Saver and Good Samaritan into my working description of who Parker Manning is.
It’s a little tough, thanks to all the suspicions I’ve harbored over the years. It’s a big jump, from Man Child Mega Flirt to Landlord-slash-Saint.
Delilah’s voice flits toward me. “Hey, did you get in a fight or something?”
“Nope.” I push through the swinging doors.
“Okay, well, tell him to remember I need next Friday off!” she calls.
In a daze, I walk down the tight hallway, toward the only door in sight. It’s open and the scent of coffee wafts out.
Parker’s seated in a leather chair, facing a computer.
An actual computer.
I didn’t even know he was capable of using one. His big, strong hands rest on the keyboard, and he types like he knows how to type. Not finger-pecking. He’s fast.
Why does the fact that he knows how to type make my stomach feel like it’s a jar filled with fireflies?
I stand in the door quietly for a second or two, just watching him go. Plenty of girls have drooled over Parker’s agility on the tennis court. I might be the only one to get this swoony over his typing speed.
When he swivels to face me, I give him a tentative smile. “Morning.”
“Afternoon, actually, sleepy head.” His brow pinches when he spots the hole in my legging, then my pink, scraped hands. He stands up and walks over to me.
I can’t even stress about how to handle this first, post-kiss interaction, because the next thing I know, he’s wrapping his arms around me. “Gem, what happened?” he asks, mid-bear-hug.
“Mrrm im wvva mog,” I say into his sweatshirt.
“What?”
I pull my lips away from his chest. “Run in with a dog. Mopsey. Up at your trailer. Well, runningfromher is more like it.”
Then I bury my face back into his sweatshirt. He smells good. Clean and manly and faintly of the coffee I so badly crave. His arms are strong, holding me.
“You were up at my trailer?” His fingertips glide over my hair as he smooths down stray strands. I feel the softest, sweetest pressure on the top of my head when he lowers his lips to my hair for a quick kiss.
“I wanted to see for myself if you had a rat problem,” I admit.
“Take your pants off.”
“Excuse me?” I yank away from him, and heat rushes up into my cheeks. Even though I haven’t yet consumed a drop of the coffee in the pot on one side of his desk, I feel jitters jolt through me.
I give his chest a little push. “Whatdid you just say?No!”
He laughs. “Relax. Not like that.” Then he turns and crouches over a duffel bag near the wall. When he hands a pile of silky maroon fabric up to me, I get it.
Shorts. He’s handing me shorts.
Right.
No reason to have a heart attack. I’ve had a rough enough day as it is.
“You can’t just tell a girl to strip like that, out of the blue,” I quip, as I hold the shorts up, judging the size. “A little context would help.”
