Page 414 of One More Kiss

“Fuck. You’re feisty, aren’t you? I like that in a woman.” He winks, and it sends a shiver down my spine. What the hell is happening?

“Are you for real?” I ask.

“As real as my twenty-inch cock. Care to come in and see it?” He takes a step to the side and sweeps his arm from one side to the other, motioning for me to come in.

“Excuse me?” I nearly choke on my tongue and take a step back as I envision him pulling down his pants and whipping out his anaconda. “Are you insane or something?”

“Inviting you inside is what we folks down here call southern hospitality, sweetheart.” He flashes me one of those smirks I’d write about in my novels where the girl’s panties instantly combust, and although this man is sex on a stick, I’m not falling for it.

“I do not want to come inside and see your python-sized cock, okay? Just give me the keys, and I’ll find my way around.”

He starts laughing. Laughing. The asshole.

“Sweetheart, I wasn’t talking about my python-sized cock—although you aren’t wrong on how big it is—but I was literally talking about my rooster, Henry.”

Wait. What?

“You have a rooster?” My brows rise, and I can feel my cheeks starting to heat. I’ve just made a complete ass out of myself, and it’s all his fault.

“That’s what I said. He likes to wander around the backyard, so don’t get freaked if you see him around the guesthouse.”

I groan, closing my eyes to release the added stress. “Great, I’ll be sure to watch for him.” I hold my palm out flat in front of me. “The keys? Can I have them please?”

His hand reaches for his pocket but then stops. “Not so fast. I need to go over the rules and stipulations first.”

“I read all of the rules online when I booked the place. I know what your stipulations are. I’m tired, I smell like airplane, and I just want to take a hot shower,” I explain, but he ignores me.

“Follow me,” he calls out, walking into the house and leaving me both confused and speechless on the porch.

I step inside with my rolling suitcase and follow behind him. The wheels from my luggage rattle against the hardwood floor, and before I can fix it, he turns around, grabs my suitcase, and carries it on his shoulder.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” I ask, realizing I only know him by his name on the Airbnb site—E. Rochester. Sounds made up now that I see him in the flesh. He looks more like a Mr. Robinson. Probably seduces young women and takes their youth and then bails. Or maybe the E stands for egotistical.

“No. Are you going to tell me your favorite position?”

“What?” I screech, certain I heard him wrong.

“Of baseball,” he clarifies, looking over his other shoulder at me, sporting an infamous panty-melting smirk.

“I don’t—”

“It feels like you’re hoarding baseballs or bowling balls in here. Shit.”

I narrow my brows, annoyed he continues to make sexual comments about normal things while knowing exactly what he’s doing. And I’m giving him just the reaction he’s hoping for.

Dammit.

“It’s books actually,” I correct him. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer? Really?” He sets the luggage down in the middle of the kitchen that looks like it came straight from a Country Living magazine. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a writer either.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest defensively. I’ve known this guy for all of five minutes, and already he’s labeling me and pissing me off.

“You look like a basic girl. I assumed you were a dancer or something. Maybe a gymnast. Or hell, even a model.”

I’m not sure what the hell he’s talking about, but I’m pretty certain that kind of sounded like a compliment?

“What’s a basic girl?”

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