Page 23 of Bracing The Storm

I lift it up, noticing how light it is. What could possibly be so light? What could the fantasy woman in my head have gotten him that barely weighs anything? My brain’s starting to come up with scenarios, all raunchy and naughty, all fueling that anger that always seems to be buzzing about whenever I’m thinking of Patrick Walsh.

I have to know.

My curiosity is killing me.

Forget all the crap about privacy and not my business and all that. He and I aren’t exactly on friendly grounds so any of the rules of politeness and decorum don’t apply. Besides, I’m sure he’d do the same if he were in my position. Judging from what I’ve seen of him so far, he wouldn’t even think twice.

And I really,reallyhave to know. If I don’t, the vivid pictures in my mind are going to drive me to the brink of insanity.

It’s only going to be a brief peek inside, I tell myself. No one has to know.

Before I can stop myself, I’ve untied the bow and lifted the lid a little to peer through the gap. There’s a thin sheet of tissue paper, which obstructs my view. I have no other choice but to take the lid off and peel the tissue paper aside. It’s so thin of course it tears a little.

Accidents happen!

My gaze falls on the silver fabric, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is.

A nightgown.

It’s the sheer and flimsy kind you don’t wear when opening the door to the postman unless you plan on inviting him in for a morning snack, and I’m not talking about coffee and bagels.

Balancing the thin straps on my fingertips, I gingerly lift the gown out of its box and feel the telltale heat of a blush rushing to my face. I’m not an expert on nightwear, but even I can tell this must have cost a small fortune. The fabric is so delicate, a single clumsy movement could tear a hole in it. But it’s what lies underneath that makes the rush of heat drain from my face and retreat to the lower parts of my body.

The thong is barely more than a bit of lace attached to a string of pearls. I’m not a prude; I know where the pearls are supposed to go, all the places they’re supposed to caress. A tingle travels through my abdomen, settling between my legs, reminding me it’s been a while since anything or anyone’s touched that part of mine. Even I have neglected it, probably out of fear I might find cobwebs down there.

I don’t know who would leave something so erotic on my doorstep. I’m still toying with the idea it was intended for Patrick’s eyes. Maybe one of his lady friends has decided to leave a sexy souvenir, something to reveal her intentions for an upcoming date, which is so much worse than the birthday gift scenario I was picturing before.

The thought has me instantly fuming. I mean, does hehaveto flaunt his sexual conquests in my face? It’s not like I’m interested in his kinky practices between the sheets. And because I’m so angry with him, I take a few pictures on my cell to send to Mia to keep her updated on the Grump.

Her text message arrives a few moments later.

Mia: That’s not any nightgown, Lori. It’s a limited edition. Saw it on the runway this year. They’re real pearls and the whole thing costs more than a small car. Apparently it wasdesigned to make you orgasm while you’re wearing it. I call finder’s keepers!

Me: Sounds like a big pile of BS.

Mia: Have you tried it on yet? Knowing you, probably not. Do it! Do it now! You owe it to the designer and the inflated price tag!

What? That last part makes zero sense.

I roll my eyes.Trying the thing onis her primary concern? She can’t be serious. I should have known better than getting Mia involved.

Me: No, I haven’t put on this atrocious attempt at women’s underwear and I’m not going to. It’s not mine, remember? I’m going to return it now and hope the Grump will bury his head in a ditch of quicksand out of sheer shame at being found out what he’s up to with his lady friends. Got to go. Talk later.

I switch off my cell before she can reply and toss the lingerie back into the box, not bothering with the ribbon. It doesn’t really matter. I want the guy to know I’ve seen it. I want him to be embarrassed and squirm under my scrutiny and drop to his knees to apologize for being a nuisance last night.

I shake my head to stop the dark trail my thoughts are taking.

Let’s face it.

The most probable thing I’ll get from someone like Patrick is a nod and some tight-lipped grin that says he’s guilty as charged. Maybe even some half-ass apology. But hell, I’ll take whatever I can get.

The door to the main house is unlocked. Given that I still don’t own a set of keys, I’m grateful that I don’t have to waste ten minutes banging my fist against it. His eyesore of a truckis parked in the driveway. He’ssomewhere, but the house is so huge he could be anywhere. I make sure to stomp as loudly as I can in the hope he’ll somehow hear me. Hopefully, the waves of anger wafting from me will leave him unsettled before I reach him.

I don’t need to look for long. Once I’m down the hall leading to the kitchen, he opens a door and steps into my path, blocking my way, making it impossible to see what’s behind him.

Our eyes connect and my mouth instantly goes dry. He’s wearing a grin, and not much else. So much for my unsettling strategy. My gaze is instantly drawn to the “not much else”.

What is the guy eating, for crying out loud? And can I have some?

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