Page 31 of Bracing The Storm

Big mistake!

He screams eye candy, the kind you take to bed and don’t bother asking for his number in the morning. Because, let’s face it, men of his ego caliber know how good-looking they are; they know the effect they have on women. Why would they stay faithful to one when they can have a whole harem?

That’s when I notice his pensive expression and I realize his mind’s still preoccupied with the whole “banging on defenseless objects” thing.

“You can’t stop your noise pollution? Why’s that?” I narrow my eyes at him, annoyed. Men are such a weird species, it would make sense if they were from Mars.

“Because I have a convention coming up next month and everyone’s going to be there.”

“Wait! Did you just say a ‘convention’? LikeStar Warsand UFOs and the like?”

He nods, serious, not catching on the sarcasm dripping from my tone. “Yes. And it’s only once a year. People expect me to be good, which means I need to hone my skills.” He winks and his lips curve up a little. “I’ve always been a fan of practicing. Lots and lots of it. That’s why I’m good ateverything.”

Why does that sound like a dirty insinuation?

I need to get my mind out of the gutter, and fast, preferably before the Irish guy realizes I haven’t been with anyone in so long I’m slowly starting to fall for his charm—or lack thereof—without him even trying.

“Let’s not find out whether that’s true.” I take a deep, steadying breath. “Dude, I get this is your hobby, and it’s fine. I have a few of those myself.”

“It’s not my hobby. It’s?—”

I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Sorry. Yourpassion.Childhood dream. Whatever. The thing withfantasiesis that they’re just that. Growing up, I wanted to be a princess, marry the prince, live in a castle. It’s probably the fairy tale dream of every little girl. My point is, you don’t see me married to the prince now, do you?” I pause for effect. He’s just staring at me, lost for words. I can see I’m finally getting through to him. I’mhelpinghim. “I understand you wanted to be a rock star, but now that you’re almost what—thirty?—you need to tune into the real world, get a job that pays the bills, and move out of your parents’ home. It’s time togrow up.”

Patrick’s still staring at me, mouth slightly open. With a gentle smile, I pat his shoulder, and instantly wish I hadn’t touched him. Under that T-shirt, he isripped.

And because I’m on a roll, I keep going. “It might sound a little scary at first, but once you give it a try you’ll realize beingindependentfeels great. It’s such an achievement; you’ll be so proud of yourself.” I shoot him a reassuring smile and head back up the stairs, calling over my shoulder, “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

Once I’m in my bedroom, I don’t bother to change out of my clothes. I sink onto my bed and relish the sensation of comfort. I’m so tired I close my eyes for a moment, slowly slipping into sweet oblivion. I’m on the verge of falling asleep when a rap at the door jerks me back to reality.

I jump up, startled, and yell, “What?”

The door opens and Patrick peers in, holding something in his hands. But I can’t focus on that. He’s taken his shirt off. All I see is his naked upper body, and hot damn! It’s even better than I remember. Suddenly all I want is to take my time ogling him.

Strong muscles ripple beneath taut, bronze skin, drawing my attention to the defined V. I want to see more but he’s holding a brown box that blocks the view farther below.

Dammit!

I frown, annoyed with the box. If looks could make it disappear, it would have pulverized into dust by now.

“For you,” Patrick says. “Looks like you have a secret admirer.”

I look up, confused. “What?”

“The package. It’s a big one.” He holds the box out to me, offering an unobstructed view of what I’ve been dying to see. I don’t want to stare and yet I can’t help myself.

My gaze lingers on the bulge in his pants, and my eyes widen in disbelief. For once, he’s being modest. That is onebigpackage, and I’m not referring to the box. Unless he’s hiding a pair of socks in there, there’s no way any woman could take that and be able to walk the next morning.

“You want it or not?” Patrick asks.

The box, I remind myself. He’s talking about the box.

I force my gaze away from his crotch, all the way up to his face. His brows shoot up, amused, and my cheeks catch fire. Even though I’m aware I haven’t done anything wrong, I feel caught out. Unless the guy can read minds there’s no way he could have picked up on the direction of my thoughts, but the glint in his eyes and the double entendre suggest otherwise. Maybe he’s so used to the female population staring at whatever he’s hiding in his pants that he immediately assumes every woman wants a piece of it.

Well, I don’t.

Okay, maybe a little.

“Just leave it over there.” I gesture in the direction of the dresser. “What’s inside?”

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