Page 17 of Under Fire

Her silver car huffed and puffed as it wheezed its way into his driveway, very clearly somewhere on its last legs. She reminded herself that she just had to get through the morning—get through her side of the deal—and everything would be fine. She’d walk away with a finished job, a payday and a fixed car. She had nothing to lose.

Right?

As soon as she stepped out of the car in tight black yoga capris that were ten times more modest that those previously worn hot shorts, she felt herself tremble. Waiting for her, Mr. Perfect cascaded down his stone steps in a fitted black T-shirt and boardshorts, sipping on some drink that looked deliciously cool. Nearly as delicious as he looked—tanned, muscular, rough.Ready.

“Morning,” he grumbled at her, his own dark shades covering his eyes under the blistering sun.

“Hi,” she replied, her heart thumping already.

Unable to get a read on him under his sunglasses, she nervously reached up and twirled her black ponytail, trying to find some great icebreaker to prove she knew how to talk to other humans. But, under his gaze, even her most basic functions froze. No words came to mind, so a nice, awkward silence ensued, and she felt herself choking on her own saliva.

Seemingly amused at her plight, he turned to his open garage, grabbing tools and what looked like a car part. He came back, motioning for her to toss him the car keys.

“Right,” Alisa replied, kneeling and fumbling in her black purse. “The keys.”

There were too many goddamn things in this bag, she silently complained to herself, trying to make it quick. Pushing aside a stethoscope and a book on magnetic imaging, she fingered the abyss for her keychain.

“Need a hand?” His shadow loomed over her, and she didn’t mistake the amusement in his voice.

“I’m fine.” She frowned at him.

Then, she realized that his hand was outstretched to her.

Finally feeling the sharp edges of her keys, she put her much smaller hand in his, allowing him to hoist her up. Unfortunately, she stumbled forward, stunned by his sheer strength, and found herself pushing off his chest. His lips curled in obvious self-satisfaction at her touch, but before she could say anything, he snatched the keys from her hand and paced toward the hood of her car.

“You know where the supplies are,” he called back at her, gesturing toward the house. “Get at it.”

“Right, okay,” she murmured and uneasily twirled on the balls of her feet, marching to his front door, trying to remember her self-talk.

She just had to finish the house cleaning. Everything was going to be fine.

Just fine.

Catching the last glimpse of him before she shut the door behind her, she sucked in air so fast that she almost grew dizzy. He was leaning his hulking body over, digging into her engine—and there she was cleaning the remainder of his place. For a second, it almost made her feel like they were playing house.

But, as the door snapped shut, she shook her head. That was a hard ‘no’.

Focusing on the job at hand and pushing her tedious thoughts aside, Alisa kept her eye on the prize. And, truthfully, it wasn’t that painful to do—when he wasn’t looming over her. Cleaning Warren’s house was one of the easiest jobs she’d had that year. He was a tidy person, and his house looked barely lived in. The worst thing she saw was a lot of dust. The best thing she saw was a framed picture of a little blonde girl with bright blue eyes, hung in a place of honor in his kitchen. She suspected that the girl was his daughter, which made it all very sweet. Seeing the photo also gave Alisa a little extra security, knowing that whatever her attraction to Warren was, it was never going to go further than that.

However terrible she was with people, she was hopeless with kids. Dr. Zucker had drilled that home.

As she scrubbed and scrubbed, she had to readjust her ponytail several times, finally just tightening it up into a very messy bun. It wasn’t pretty, but she was determined to do a top-notch job and needed all distractions to go away. She was nothing if not a perfectionist and workaholic.

And truly, she was so appreciative that someone was fixing her car for free that she wasn’t going to let a speck of dirt or dust linger in Warren’s home. As she moved quickly through her work, the air conditioning blasting through his house wasn’t enough to keep her cool, and she felt a layer of dew amassing on her face and body.

Nearly done and finishing up the kitchen, she wiped her brow. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck from her pinned-up bun. Her gaze drifted to the windowsill where a small invitation leaned against the glass. It was dark and solemn, and as she leaned in to read the words, she realized it was an invitation to a funeral.

A funeral that had happened five years ago.

Geoff?

A man who looked strong and healthy smiled back from the funeral card. If she had to guess, she’d say he was military, just like Warren, based on appearances alone. She wondered how he’d died and why Warren kept the card propped up, in plain view—like a reminder.

Gazing up through the window, she noticed Warren’s fit frame in his backyard. He looked like he was clocking out, and she wondered if he had been able to replace the part successfully. God, she hoped so. She needed to conclude the morning as soon as possible before she did anything…embarrassing.

Folding her dirty cloth, she watched him wipe sweat off his brow with a grimy hand. If she felt a little turned on seeing that, then she absolutely died when he tore off his black T-shirt, giving Alisa a clear view of his naked torso.

Like, fuckingdied.

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