Page 9 of Bracing The Storm

Judging from the trimmed lawn and hedges, and the way he seems to keep hovering around the place, I conclude he must be the gardener.

I climb the broad stairs and stop in front of the door, wondering whether to ring the bell or just let myself in.

Given that the house is mine now, I decide there is no need to announce myself to myself. The sooner the guy realizes I’m the one who’s going to be paying for his beer at the local pub from now on, the better for the both of us. That is, if I’ll keep him in my employ.

Before my newfound courage deserts me, I try the door. To my surprise, it’s unlocked.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice reverberating off the walls, as I take a few tentative steps in.

The place is absolutely breathtaking.

The foyer is one open space with an impressive crystal chandelier and polished marble floors. Beneath my feet is a rug that swallows the sound of my footsteps as I step on it and close the door behind me. My gaze is immediately drawn to the swooping staircase leading to the upper floors, but I won’t venture up there yet. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as the inevitable thought crosses my mind.

Sell the place.

Even though this house isn’t home by a long shot, it feels strange that the thought hurts a little. If it could talk, it wouldprobably tell me that anyone would be so lucky to live here. But I need the money to sort out the life I have back home. Yes, it’s in shambles right now, but it’s the life I chose for myself. I have important business to get back to. I can’t get attached and build castles in the air, no matter how stunning the place is. Even though it would be tempting to imagine myself waking up in the morning to the sun shining through the large bay windows, I won’t allow my feelings to get involved.

This is strictly business.

I open one door after another, barely peering in before I move to the next because there’s so much to see. The kitchen is country style with white cabinets and an island. Everything’s neatly tucked away and polished to perfection, like no one’s ever even made a fried egg in here. Then there’s a conservatory filled to the brim with plants that look well-cared-for. There’s a living room a couple times the size of my matchbox apartment in NYC. Several sofas are strategically placed to offer a perfect view of both the oversized open fireplace and the landscaped garden outside.

Everything is clean and orderly. If it weren’t for the countless photos adorning the mantelpiece I’d doubt anyone ever lived here. I decide to look at them later once I’m done with my brief tour of the house.

Everything’s so bright and beautiful I can barely contain my squeal of joy and almost bump into the guy from last night.

“Sorry, I—” I reach for the doorway to steady myself before I tumble into him, but somehow miss it, and slam against his hard chest. His arm wraps around my waist to steady me, knocking all the air out of my lungs as he holds me against him.

Not that I could breathe anyway.

We’re so close, for a moment I forget where I am.

He isn’t just sexy; he’s out of this world and then some. A statue of a man, at least a head taller than me with hard musclesbeneath his white shirt and jeans. I want nothing else but to rip off his clothes and check whether he looks as good as he feels. He even smells good, of shower gel and fresh air, like he’s already been out on a morning jog and the scent’s still lingering on his skin.

Or maybe that’s the way he always smells.

I inhale deeply, unable to help myself, and realize his scent is intoxicating. Whatever’s in that shower gel, it should come with a warning because it makes me all dizzy and unable to form a clear thought. Or maybe it’s the way he’s holding me, all strong and possessive, the heat of his hands burning through my thin clothes.

There’s something about him that triggers a memory, and it’s not our rather unfortunate encounter from this morning. There’s something remarkably familiar about him. I think I’ve seen his face before.

But where?

I raise my gaze to study his features and realize he’s staring at me, though our thoughts are probably going in very different directions.

In his eyes—the color of overcast skies—a storm is brewing.

I’ve no idea what I’ve done to cause so much dislike in him but it sure emanates from his every pore. He really seems to have an aversion to strangers. In spite of his Adonis-looks, he’s probably just some village guy who’s known the same people since birth and doesn’t warm to new people easily. He probably senses my city-girl flair and has labeled me as high maintenance.

That is so not me!

“Hi. We haven’t really been introduced properly,” I manage to squeeze through compressed lungs and cringe at how girlish I sound when I was actually going for mature with a hint of sultry.

“You’re trespassing,” the guy says, brows drawn.

I’m realizing the sultry part isn’t me either. In fact, judging from his deepening dislike of me, I think I pretty much suck at it.

“Me trespassing?” I laugh. “I think you’re the one trespassing, given that this is my house. Besides, you mentioned breakfast, remember?” I place my hand against his hard chest, and push to put some much-needed distance between us. He doesn’t budge from the spot. His grip on me isn’t loosening, either, nor does his gaze shift from me. I catch something in his look, a dark shadow, maybe a hint of annoyance, as his jaw sets.

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