I look at him. He's in the doorway to my bedroom, filling it completely. He's wearing a thin black V-neck T-shirt that hugs his torso and biceps, and the way he's standing, one arm over his head against the door frame, has his shirt hiked up so I can see grooved abdominal definition, and a thick trail of blond body hair leading under his waistband.
"My truck?" I remember how he got here in the first place. "How did you get my truck here?"
"I had it towed, had it fixed, and then drove it here."
"Wait." I stand up, and remember that I'm naked, and sit back down, cover my lap with old clothes. "What are you doing in my house? What are you doing in my bedroom? You know what?--Don't answer; you need to leave."
"You want to call your work with my phone?" He digs into his hip pocket, withdraws a sleek smart phone and extends it to me.
Equanimous. How can he be so damn equanimous all the time?
"Stop being so nice." I stretch up from the floor, holding clothes against me to shield me from his gaze, and to hide the evidence that I'm sincerely and severely affected by him. "It's creepy."
"Since when is nice creepy?"
"Since no one is ever nice for no reason," I say, dialing the office.
"I have a reason." More leaning, more smirking, more bulging biceps.
"Oh, yeah?" The line is ringing, ringing, ringing. "What reason?"
"The reason is nice doesn't need a reason."
"That's stupid. Try again."
"Okay." He strokes his beard with long, strong fingers. "Umm...okay, how about this: you're seriously hot, and being nice to you stands to benefit me in some way, at some point, even if it's just more free glances at those big, juicy tits of yours."
I'm struck dumb by this response for a moment, until I recover my wits. "Jesus, you're a pig."
A laconic shrug. "You asked."
"They're not that big." I cross my arms over my chest, not exactly self-conscious, but--okay, plenty self-conscious.
"Big enough, from what I saw, and I'm pretty sure I saw plenty."
I glare at him, sigh in frustration because no one at the office is answering the phone. "Can we stop talking about my breasts?" I say this as someone finally picks up, which means they catch that statement.
"Um, hello?" Lindsey answers, confused.
"Oh, god, Lindsey, hi, it's Niall."
"Niall! Are you okay? We were all worried about you."
"Yeah, I'm--I'm fine. My truck broke down last night, and I slept through my alarm this morning. I'm so sorry, Lindsey. I'll be there as soon as I can. Half an hour, maybe?"
Lindsey confers with someone, the words muffled. "Well, actually Dr. Beardsley is here and he says it's fine, just take the day off."
"Oh, no, I couldn't."
There's the sound of the handset being transferred, then I hear Dr. Beardsley's thick Texas twang. "Niall, darlin', ya'll just stay home today, a'ight? We-all are fine here. Ya'll took care'a things yestiddy, and 'sides, you ain't taken a day off in--well, ever."
"You're sure, Dr. Beardsley? I can be there in less than half an hour."
"I may be old, but I ain't dead yet. I can take care of my own practice for one day."
"If you're sure."
"I'm sure. Now git. I'll see ya'll t'morrah."
"Okay, thanks. And--I'm sorry. I've never done this before in my life."
"Happens to the best of us, I'm afraid. Why, I 'member once I was two hours late to my own surgery."
I laugh, because this is quintessential Amos Beardsley. "Let me guess--you were out hunting?"
"Why Niall, it's like you know me. You are surely right, though. Got a nice eight-point buck that day, and then had my knee replaced." He gives a chesty, rumbling cough, which he's had for as long as I've known him. "Listen to me, rambling on like a fool. I got patients, so I'll let ya'll go. See you t'mrorrah, Niall."
"Bye, Dr. Beardsley."
"G'bye now, sweetheart."
I end the call, toss the phone back into my purse, and then remember it's not mine. Retrieve it, and hand it back to Tall, Blond, and Muscular.
"So you've got the day free?"
I nod. "Looks like it."
"What are you gonna do with it?"
I shrug. "Hell if I know. I haven't had a Wednesday off in...a really long time."
"Might I suggest letting me take you to breakfast? Well, lunch. Brunch. Whatever."
"You may suggest, and I may decline." I don't quite look at him, because if nothing else, real food sounds great. All I've got is stale bread and no toaster.
"I did bring you your truck." Another of those insufferable smirks. "That should earn me brunch, at least."
"Yeah, about that. How'd you do it? I know for a fact I have my keys in my purse."
"Spare key in the magnetic box under the front right wheel well. One of those spare key hideout things." He digs in his hip pocket, withdraws a single key, and extends it to me.
I take it, stare at it. "I didn't even know it was there." I glance up at him. "What was wrong with it?"
"Out of gas." His lips twitch in his beard, as if he's struggling to hold back laughter.
"Out of gas?" I frown, puzzled. "But I just filled it up a few days ago. Shouldn't be empty yet."
"Leaky fuel line. Didn't take them long to fix it."
"How much did it cost, for the tow and the repair?"
"Brunch."
"What?"
"The price of a meal, that's how much the repair cost."
I breathe in and out slowly a few times, trying to gather my thoughts. I should not have lunch with this guy.
But why not?
He rescued me last night.
He brought me my truck this morning--this afternoon, rather. He's not asking for repayment.
I don't even know his name, nor he mine, and he's in my bedroom. I'm all but naked, and he's made it clear he likes what he's seen. And, dear lord, he's seen plenty, as he stated himself.
Does that last point go in the pros or cons? I don't know.
He's got me off-kilter.
The dream still lingers in my mind, that image of Ollie's dead eyes swiveling to stare at me. The helplessness. It's suddenly hard to swallow. If I stay here all day, alone, I'll relive that dream over and over and over again, until I'm crazy.
So, maybe I'm already crazy, but I find myself looking up at him. "All right. Fine. Brunch. But you need to leave so I can get dressed."
"Don't let me stop you."
"You're not watching! Jesus." I shake my head, amazed at his blatant lechery. "You don't even know my name."
"Niall James."
I blink, stunned. "How--how did you know?"
Something dark flickers across his gaze. It's so quick, I almost miss it, and doubt that it was ever there once it's gone. "It was on your registration. I looked in the glove box for the spare key."
"I don't know your name."
"Lock."
I frown up at him. "Lock?"
"It's short for Lachlan, but nobody calls me that except my mother, and that over my repeated protests."
"Lachlan. You have a last name?"
"Nope. I'm an escaped clone from a secret government super-soldier experiment." He manages to say this deadpan.
"Don't be a dick."
He laughs, and god, that sound is sexy as hell. I hate him for it. Or I want to, but I can't quite manage full-on hatred. Annoyance, at best.
"Montgomery," he says. "My name is Lachlan Montgomery."
I stand up, hold a handful of dirty laundry against my belly to hide my crotch, and extend my other hand to him to shake. "Nice to meet you, Lachlan."
He shakes my hand--god his hand is big and rough, the palm callused to the point of feeling like sandpaper. "Please call me Lock." Another of those brief flickers of something crosses his features. "It's nice to meet you too, Niall."
"Great, we're introduced. Now. For real. Get the hell out of my house so I can get dressed in privacy."
"Fine, fine." He bac
ks away, as if he can't quite bear the thought of tearing his gaze off of me. Which is weird.
And not unwelcome.
Yes--yes it is unwelcome, dammit. What am I thinking?
Did I just agree to have brunch with this guy? Why? Why? Stupid, Niall, so stupid. You're in no position to be going on dates.
But it's not really a date, is it?
I ponder this question as I wait until I hear the front doors close, both the storm door and the entry door. And the answer I come up with, confusingly, is that yes, it is a date.
I agreed to a date with a man whose name I didn't even know at the moment of agreement. A man who barged uninvited into my house, after ogling my mostly naked body.
Well, hell, if it's a date I've agreed to, I can't just throw my hair in a ponytail and wear comfy pants, can I? So I take a shower, depilate all the appropriate areas, and take the time to dry my hair and curl the ends.
Which is a bad idea, because Ollie always loved it when I curled my hair like this. I don't do it often, mainly for special occasions, or the few times in our relationship when we had time alone, together, not working. A day off, a date between assignments with MSF. Our wedding.
And I'm crying, thinking of Ollie while curling my hair for a date with another man.
God, I'm a mess.
He'd wind the curls around his fingers and tug on them. He'd pull me up against him and twirl my curls and kiss me sweetly, tugging a little. Gently, sweetly, not aggressively, just...sweetly and possessively.
I have to stop and put the curling iron down and breathe. Blink tears away.
Why am I doing this?
Just offer the man some money and get rid of him.
Lock wouldn't take money, though, something tells me. And I already agreed, so I can't back out now, can I?
Of course I could. But it would be rude, especially after he went so far out of his way to help me.
He wants something from me, though. I mean, duh, obviously he wants something from me.
He wants that from me, and there's no way in goddamned hell that's happening.
So why did I trim my down-under and shave my legs and underarms?
Why am I curling my hair and putting on eyeliner and mascara and lip stain for the first time in over a year?
Why am I stuffing my ass into my smallest pair of shorts, and my tits into a short-sleeve button-down flannel? And why, oh why, oh why am I leaving the top three buttons undone? I button the third button, after re-examining the amount of cleavage being revealed. Two buttons is plenty.
He's already seen more than that, a nefarious little voice whispers, deep down.
I'm fucking lonely, that's why I'm doing all this.
It doesn't mean a damn thing. It's just nice to feel appreciated for more than my ability to take temperatures and suture cuts. It's nice to feel like a woman. It's nice to be wanted. Doesn't mean I'm going to do anything with it, or about it.
I'm a widow, not a nun. I don't have to be lonely.
Plus, it doesn't hurt that he's sexy as hell. God, those eyes. I never thought I'd like a beard, but that blond mass is hot. It's wild, and makes him look like he's crossed forests and oceans and deserts.
Finally ready, I shoulder my purse, unplug my phone from the charger, make sure I have my keys, and lock the front door.
I find Lock sitting on the tailgate of my truck, using what appears to be half a tree branch to play tug-of-war with that pony-sized dog of his. He gets the stick away, holds it above his head to keep it from the dog. Joke's on him, though, because the dog is so big it can just lift up on its hind legs and snatch it without much effort. Lock laughs, lunges off the tailgate and full-body tackles the dog, wrestles away the stick, and then runs backward a few steps, trying to hold the stick out of reach. But yet again, a single hop covers a good half a dozen feet, and another tiny leap lets the dog latch massive, powerful jaws around the stick and wrench it way.
It's funny, and I can't help laughing. "That is a hell of a big dog."
"She's not small," he agrees, heaving the branch as far away as he can.
"What's her name?"
"Utah." The dog drags the branch to Lock, and then sits on her haunches, expectant. "Utah...go say hi!"
Utah tilts her head, follows Lock's outstretched arm pointing at me, and then she bounds toward me. Which is scary as fuck. Despite the dog's clearly affable nature, having an animal of that size run at you with arm-crushing jaws wide is just plain terrifying. But when she gets to me, Utah skids to a halt, lifts up, and puts her paws on my front shoulders. Standing like this she has to lean down to lick my face. I bat at her, try to shove her off, but she's bigger than me in every way, and is clearly determined to lick me to death.
"Utah! Get off me!" I laugh.
And immediately, she pulls her paws off me and sits at my feet, which puts her head at belly height.
I wipe at my face. "So. What's the plan?"
Lock hefts the tree branch and hurls it into the brush across the road from my yard, and Utah jumps in after it, which in turn scares a rabbit out, Utah in hot pursuit. From initial impressions, I don't think much of the rabbit's chances.
Lock now seems to take note of me for the first time since I emerged from my house. "Damn, girl." He straightens, squares his shoulders. His eyes narrow, and he saunters toward me.
I back up, the intensity and hunger in his gaze rife and powerful and overwhelming. "Stop looking at me like that."
"How am I supposed to not look at you like this when you look like that?" He's about a foot away, now, staring down at me, growling.
Well, not growling, really. Purring, more. There's no threat in his voice or his words, only...promise.
I shiver.
Or is it a shudder?
I shove past him. Pretend I can breathe just fine. Pretend my thoughts and emotions aren't in complete juxtapositional turmoil. I jerk open the door of my truck, jam the key in the ignition and start the engine.
And damn me if it doesn't start on the first try.
I hear claws scrabbling on metal, and I twist in place to see Utah in the bed of the truck, prowling in circles three times, and then lying down, chin on paws. And then Lock is in the cab beside me. It's a small cab. Just a single bench seat, no console, just the old ripped cloth and two faded, scuffed plastic and metal seatbelt buckles. He fills the cab. Overfills it, really. Broad, broad shoulders, thick thighs in tight denim, well-worn hiking boots. His hair is brushed this time, but still wild, nearly down to his shoulders, thick and wavy, sticking to his beard in places. And that beard, Jesus. He's brushed it too, and I think I'm catching whiffs of pine and spruce coming from it. Not unpleasant. The opposite, actually.
My truck's engine sounds different. Smoother. Idles more silkily. And then there's the fact that it caught on the first try.
I yank the gearshift down into reverse, back up into the road, jerk it into drive, and then twist to glance at Lock. "What else did you have fixed?"
He's rolling the window down, hanging his arm out, not quite looking at me. Shrugs. "I just told 'em to fix her up. I don't know what all they did."
"Bullshit."
He looks at me, now. "You sound pissed."
"I don't like owing people."
"You don't owe me shit. You'll never owe me a godddamn thing." He says this vehemently, a little too much so. Off-puttingly so. Curiously so. He seems to realize this and lets out a slow breath, starts again more evenly. "Starter. Serpentine belt. The fuel line, obviously. Brakes...what else? I think that's it. Oh, no--the spark plugs."
My throat chokes. That's everything the mechanic said it needed to be basically as good as new, engine-wise. I just didn't have the money to fix it then, and haven't had the time lately. I know how much that cost him, because I had it quoted for me.
"Lock...that's a lot of money in repairs." I swallow hard. "How'd you get it all done so fast?"
"I had it towed last night. Soon as you walked away, I called a tow truck and had th
e mechanic start right away. Just told him to fix everything that needed fixing. They must have worked late and started early."
"I'm paying you back. That's too much."
His eyes cut to mine. "The hell you are."
"I'm not a fucking charity case, Lock. I don't need your help or your money, and I'm not fucking you just because you've been nice."
"Not because I'm nice, no. But you will." This in that same low purring growl.
I slam my foot on the brake. "You know what? Get out of my truck." We skid to a stop, dust skirling in through the open windows. "Thanks for fixing it, that was very kind and very unnecessary. Goodbye, Lachlan Montgomery."
"Hey, I was just--"
"You were not kidding, so don't try and pull that on me. That may work on bar sluts, that smirk and the purr, but it's not going to work on me. So get the fuck out."
"Smirk and purr?" He quirks an eyebrow at me. "You think I purr?"
I groan, burying my face in my hands. "Jesus. You don't take a hint, do you? LEAVE."
He stares at me levelly for a long moment, and god it's hard to resist the siren song in those blue-green eyes. But I do, somehow.
And he gets out. Snaps his fingers. "Utah, c'mon girl. Let's walk."
Happily, the dog bounds out of the bed and walks beside Lock, tail wagging, happy just to be.
God, to be a dog.
I watch them walk.
He totally deserved it.
Bonus reason I kicked him out is because it was working and that pisses me off, confuses me, and sends little thrills into my belly all at once.
The road is straight as an arrow for a good couple of miles, so I watch man and dog slowly shrink almost out of view.
But damn it.
Damn it.
I can't let him walk all that way. It's hot as hell out there.
"Goddamn it, Niall. What are you doing?" I ask myself as I throw the truck back into drive and go after them.
What am I doing?
I don't have the slightest clue.
Go all in just to lose again
Jesus, I'm an asshole. A complete and total douchebag of the highest order.
I hit on her. Multiple times. Openly. Brazenly. Worst of all, clumsily.
Not because you're being nice, no. But you will. Who says shit like that to anyone, much less...her? I'm here to explain why I'm here, not to hit on her.
Problem is, I don't really know why I'm here.
When I stopped to help her move her car, I obviously had no idea who she was, only that she was a small woman trying to move a large truck. I'm an asshole, a douchebag, a fuckboy, a lazy wastrel, a scoundrel, a playboy, a good-for-nothing, spoiled, rich, trust fund brat. But I can be a gentleman. I do have some redeeming qualities. She was tiny, in those fucking green scrubs and that goddamn white lab coat, pushing this thirty-year-old pickup, or trying to anyway, and failing. Horns going off, no one helping her. Traffic piling up, as far traffic goes in a podunk shitsville like this.