Page 14 of Here & There

He drops the brush into the sink, and I startle. When he rinses off his hands, he sets the hose back in its hook a little harder than necessary. “I don’t know where you’re from,” he says, reaching for a towel on a hook, “but around here, we don’t pay people for hospitality.”

My first reaction is irritation. He doesn’t need to get his panties in a twist. I was just being nice. But then I think about how he rushed over to me on the beach, gave me his coat, carried me into the bar—how he worried so much about the well-being of a perfect stranger—and now how he’s affronted at the thoughtof doing it for any other reason than kindness. It’s actually kind of sweet.

“Well, it’s not everyone who’d do what you did. Especially the part with the sink.”

Mac turns around then, wiping a forearm over his brow so I still can’t see his face. His clothes are wet; the T-shirt under the flannel jacket he’s put back on is soaked, enough that I can see dark hair on his chest, and a trail of it going all the way down?—

“That was above and beyond,” I continue, even though I’ve made my point. My heartbeat flutters. Did I just get flustered by chest hair?

I try to lift my eyes to meet his, but I’m suddenly stuck. “I—” I clear my throat. My eyes, as if they don’t belong to me, move in a long, slow drag upward. Like, way upward.

I already knew the man was large. He carried me, a five-three, size-sixteen-wearing woman, all the way from the beach into this kitchen without any kind of struggle that I can recall. But it’s not his size that’s making my breath catch in my throat. Or it’s not just that. He’s…damn. He lowers his arm, bracing it on the sink behind him to match the other one. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal corded forearms dusted with more hair. Dancing over that damp T-shirt again, I see the tiniest bit of it sprouting from his collar too.

Jesus. I had no idea I was into man hair.

When my stupid lustful eyes reach his neck and the scruff running from throat to jaw, my mouth goes dry. Even under the beard, I can see a jaw so square it could cut glass; a straight slash of a mouth, lips pressed hard right now. A long nose, ruler-straight save a little bump in the bridge, and sinfully high cheekbones. Unkempt jaw-length dark hair dusts against those and swirls out from under his dark wool cap. My father would say he needs a haircut, but all I can picture is running my fingers through that shaggy softness.

When I finally reach his eyes, I practically say “seriously?” out loud. The man’s got irises so deep blue, his eyes framed with lashes so thick and inky black, I practically feel myself swoon. When he blinks, I swear I hear thunder crashing.

This was the man Deanie saw walking in here earlier. It had to be. No wonder she nearly fell off the dock staring at him. The man is an overgrown, hairy dreamboat, even though it looks like he does everything he can to hide it.

Those gorgeous eyes narrow. “Are you cold again? My jacket’s still damp, but I’ve got a couple more in my office.”

Luckily, he’s taken my stuttering for more cold.

“Yes,” I manage, sitting back down again. “Thank you.”

I peer over my shoulder at him as he heads for the kitchen door, all giant shoulders and scruffy hair under wool.

He’s so different from any man I know back in Vancouver. The men there are, well, they’re handsome, sure, but they’re fancy suit-wearing handsome. Or sometimes outdoorsy-gear handsome. They’re not “I just split a log in half and lifted a woman up on my shoulder with one arm” handsome.

But my cardinal rule is I don’t let myself get interested in them. I can acknowledge their handsomeness once; then I look past that, to the person underneath. It saves me from heartache, and it’s gotten me some unexpected friends.

Still. This particular man? Something strange happens to my insides around him. Completely unbidden, I picture him doing thatCaptain Americaripping-apart-a-log thing. He probably actually does that. Heat surges between my legs as I picture him slowing that move down as he fixes his hands between my knees?—

I take a bracing breath.

I’ve known the man for five minutes, and he’s already lit my carefully constructed rulebook for dealing with hot guys on fire.

For a mental splash of cold water, I picture Richard. This leads to me picturing Richard trying to split a log, and I have to pinch my lips between my teeth not to laugh. Richard has this whole thing about splinters. I have to pull them out for him, and he screams like a baby the whole time, accusing me of hurting him on purpose.

Okay, that’s ungenerous. He’s probably losing his mind right now. Not that I care. I know I left room for an opening back there on the island with him, but right now, I feel done. The Bryony who jumped into the ocean is not the same Bryony who took whatever scrap of half-assed attention that self-centered man would hand me and call it listening and caring. That Bryony feels so far removed from me, I don’t even recognize her.

Unfortunately, Mac comes back in then, and after thinking about Richard, the contrast makes him almost unbearably attractive. I avoid looking directly at him. Looking at him is like looking at the sun for too long. Except I’m pretty sure Mac will burn through my reproductive organs.

But he comes right up next to me, his eyes searing the side of my face where I refuse to turn and look at him. God, I cansmellhim. He smells like the good parts of the ocean—salt water and crisp wind.

Mac comes closer, and I go stiff. And suddenly, he’s leaning over me. My stomach flips hard. Is he trying tohugme? My brain goes haywire.

“I have a boyfriend!” I blurt.

Adeeplyawkward beat passes where I force myself to drag my eyes in his direction.

“Good for you,” he says when I’m facing him again. “I have a sweater.”

He’s holding out a giant wooly cardigan. Because he thought I was cold.

“Oh my God,” I say under my breath, wanting very badly to slide down this barstool, under the table, and right out the door.

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