Page 30 of Room for Us

Squaring my shoulders, I meet his gaze. “No offense, Mr. Hart, but is there something you need? I have to finish here, then do some cleaning and prep dinner. Unless you object to grilled steak, salad, and garlic mashed potatoes?” An edge rides my last words, but I’m past caring.

To my surprise, a chagrined flush blooms on his cheekbones. “That sounds fine. Very Idaho.” He pauses to take a sip of tea, expression composed again. “I noticed you haven’t bought an espresso machine.”

My gaze snaps up to his. “No, I haven’t. And I’m not going to. I decided it would be more cost effective to pop into town each morning. If you want a refill, I can fetch it easily enough. Or you can walk down, or borrow the Jeep.”

“Huh.” Another sip of tea while his gaze wanders over my face. “And if I don’t agree with this plan?”

My aunt’s words echo in my mind: It’s always the pretty ones who are the craziest. This man is a master of conversational quicksand. And I’ve had enough.

“I’m under no contractual obligation to purchase an expensive appliance simply because you want me to. An espresso machine isn’t in our contract, nor is it listed in the amenities on our website or in the initial paperwork I attached via email. I suppose you could find other accommodations, but I hear everything’s booked up with the festival coming in a few weeks.”

Mouth twitching like he’s holding back laughter, his normally frigid eyes flash with warmth. The transformation is unsettling. When he doesn’t look like he wants to break things, he’s stunning. Heat spirals from my chest to my belly, a line of fire that leaves tingles in its wake.

Uh-oh.

Hoping he mistakes the cause of my red face as exertion, I cough. Loudly. “So…?”

“I don’t need anything, but it looks like you do.”

My mind cartwheels into the gutter, grabbing up all sorts of trashy thoughts. Aunt B’s romance novels have poisoned me, because all I can think about is this man—this beautiful stranger—ripping off my clothes and screwing me until I can’t walk. Preferably while whispering in my ear in a Scottish accent about all the things he’s going to do to me with his sword.

My problem is simple. It’s been too long since I had sex. Great sex, specifically. The mentally numbing kind that leaves your legs shaking and your throat sore. It’s merely bad luck that Mr. Stick Up His Ass looks the way he does. Namely, like he could throw on a kilt and some blue body paint scream “FREEEDOM!” à la Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

“Earth to Ms. Kemper?”

I blink lazily, focusing on his face. The arched brows, the pursed lips. From his tone, I gather he’s been talking to me while my brain and body took a jaunt down fantasy lane.

I haven’t been sleeping well. That’s my problem. I can’t possibly be attracted to this asshat.

“Sorry, um, what did you say?” My voice is hoarse, my face aflame.

He frowns. “I asked if you’d like some help.” He waves toward my fallen shovel. “With what you’re doing.”

“Oh! Oh. No. I mean, no, thank you.” I take the last two swallows of tea, then grab the shovel. “I’m stopping for the day. But thanks for offering, and for the iced tea!”

I book it toward the garden shed on the side of the house, not looking back.

20

He brought a book to dinner. Stephen King’s newest. While he read, he ate a steak and had second helpings of salad and mashed potatoes. Afterward, he delivered his dishes into the kitchen and thanked me for the delicious meal, then asked if he could bring his laundry downstairs for me. He smiled a lot, a tilted grin that was both disturbing and disturbingly charming.

“Why is he being so nice all of a sudden?” I mutter as I rinse dishes.

“Hon, that man is ten miles of bad road. He’s everything you’ve avoided your whole life. It doesn’t matter if he’s pretty or sniffing at your skirt, you need to stay away.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face when you look at him.”

My head hangs. “Fuck.”

“Exactly. Go find a nice boy in town to scratch your itch.”

“Aunt B!” I hiss.

A squeaky hinge is my only warning that I’m no longer alone. My head turns so fast my neck cracks, but thankfully Mr. Hart shows no signs of having heard me talking to myself. He has a small laundry bag in one hand and a sheepish smile on his face.

“I feel a bit weird handing you my laundry.”

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