Page 13 of The Woman By the Lake

By far.

Distractedly noting the massive, shiny, black truck parked off to the side, I marched up to the small square deck that butted the front door. The deck had no railing and was not meant to hang out on. Partly because it wasn’t big enough, mostly because the attractive outdoor area had been built, maybe ten feet away, so you wouldn’t sit on a front porch when you could sit in that side area and see the lake through the trees.

The front door was open, the storm door had its screens in, and it was closed.

But through it, I could see into a sunken living room.

Precisely, I could see Doc, flat on his back, no shirt, jeans covering his lower half, bare feet, one leg on the couch, one foot on the floor, passed out.

And on top of him, in nothing but a bra, straddling him, also passed out, was a brunette.

I’d never met her and still, I felt I knew her intimately.

Gross.

I hammered on the door.

Both of them jumped immediately, and I couldn’t stop my lips curving up.

Yes.

It was cold in Russia, and that chill ran through my veins.

I kept hammering on the door.

She lilted to sitting astride him, her neck bent like she didn’t have the strength to raise her head, hair covering her face.

He put his hands to her hips, his long fingers curling into her flesh, (this causing me to feel something I resolutely ignored) and turned his head to me.

When he saw me, his handsome, sleepy face morphed to granite.

I thinned my lips on principle.

He lifted the woman off him as he curled up, then set her on the couch as he got out of it.

He then prowled to me, crafting a new miracle, considering his ultra-faded jeans had a button fly, and as far as I could tell, only one button was done up, so how they remained on his slim (but powerful) hips was unfathomable.

They also provided the solution to the mystery of what that dart of thick hair down the center of his abs pointed to, and it was a bigger patch of dark hair. Not to mention, I had an inkling whose boxers and panties were left on that wool blanket. Either that, or the man preferred commando.

He got to the door, and I had to jump back when he pushed it open hostilely.

“What the fuck time is it?” he asked me, also hostile (obviously), one arm held out to keep the door open.

Perfect introduction.

I engaged my camera, pulled up the picture I’d taken earlier and shoved it in his face.

“That was the time your party ended,” I declared.

His eyes, which, this close, I could see were a silvery gray, and I could also see they were ringed with a very thick fringe of dark lashes, glanced at my phone before they came back to me.

“Get your fuckin’ phone out of my face.”

I dropped my phone and kept at him.

“Please allow me to explain what it appears you do not know, that being what appropriate neighborly conduct is.”

“I’m not sure you know a lot about that,” he retorted.

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