Page 2 of The Baby-whisperer and the Brute
“Angelina.”
A demanding voice echoed up the circular stairway that ascended to my tower room. “Where are you? I’m getting hungry.”
I stood, tucking my brush and hairdryer back into the drawer of my vanity table.
“Be right there Mother.”
Though my hair was fully dried now, and I knew Mother was waiting on me to come downstairs and prepare dinner, I lingered at the window a bit longer, anticipating the return of that red shirt.
It had become almost a ritual in my life to clock the tall, powerful jogger’s round trips on the path.
But when he reappeared, the t-shirt was gone. Rather, it was tucked into the back of his shorts, flapping behind him like a tail as he ran with every bit as much energy as before.
He was runningshirtless.
I fell back into my chair, instantly light-headed. All thoughts of Mother’s hunger pangs and waning patience vanished.
In fact, I couldn’t think at all.
Or look away.
Or move.
Or breathe.
Though I must have seen other men running without shirts, none of them had looked likethis.
The dark-haired jogger’s body was impressive—his chest wide and thickly layered with muscle. His shoulders and arms were heavily muscled as well, and he had several dark tattoos.
There was a large one on the left side of his chest, another on his left shoulder. Several more stretched down his arm, connecting as they decorated his bicep, elbow, forearm, and wrist.
His tight abdomen contracted with each footfall. A tattoo of a single word—I couldn’t read it from here—covered his right ribcage.
As he ran past, I noted the back view was as remarkable as the front, revealing a wide, powerful upper back tapering to a lean waist and someverywell-toned glutes.
My face heated from neck to scalp as his long, strong legs pumped and carried him out of my sight,
Whatwasthat?
Knowing I’d never bewitha man, I’d never taken much notice of any before, certainly not in a physical way. But this one… well he was impossiblenotto notice.
He was huge—a total brute—the last thing I’d ever have expected to appeal to me.
I imagined standing next to him, looking up into his eyes, reaching up and running my fingers over those tattoos, being thoroughly outsized and overpowered...
Slowly, my senses returned to me, accompanied by a hefty dose of guilt. Surely it was wrong to look at a man with such intense interest. At least formeit was.
There was no place for any man in my life—and certainly none for such a thoroughly masculine creature as this one. Maybe that was why he’d fascinated me from the very first time I’d seen him run by.
Beware the evils of men.
The phrase, repeated to me throughout my life, rose to the forefront of my mind, shaming me.
Shutting the window with a decisive click, I hurriedly twisted my hair into a thick coil at the back of my head (Mother liked for me to look neat and “respectable”) and practically ran down the spiral of stone steps to the mansion’s first floor.
As I made my way through the long, dark-paneled hallways, a vast collection of crucifixes and oil paintings depicting Biblical scenes seemed to judge me. I lowered my head and hurried to the kitchen.
Later during dinner, Mother peppered me with questions about my day.
