Finding Kyle(11)

I know I should probably be doing something constructive. Like gathering towels and blankets to sop up water, or even calling the school to tell them I will most definitely not make it in on time.

Instead, I succumb to a case of the stupids as Kyle turns onto his back and scoots under the sink to manipulate the shut-off valve with his wrench. I get the stupids because his abs contract as he holds his head up and his thigh muscles bulge under his jeans. I get an absolutely unimpeded view of the tattoos on his chest, and now I have a moment to really look.

Well, really it’s just one tattoo that starts in the center and spreads over both of his pecs. Frankly, it’s a little terrifying. It’s a hollow-eyed skull with sharp, pointed teeth that drip blood, and eye sockets with flames pouring out of them. The flames are pulled upward, almost as if by a silent draft of air, and then lick a few inches up his neck. Below the skull, which comes to mid sternum, the words “Fear Me” are written in capital gothic letters. To the left of the skull, running right along his collarbone, is the word “Mayhem’s.” On the other side, running along the right collarbone, is the word “Mission.”

I wonder what that means. While I really know nothing about Kyle at all other than he’s surly and rude in addition to being hot, I get the distinct impression that he’s not a man to be trifled with. In fact, I’d bet he’s not someone you’d want to cross paths with at all.

Kyle starts to scoot out from under the cabinet, and I blink rapidly to dispel the images of washboard abs and scary, freaky tattoos. I also realize that the water has been shut off and is no longer spraying.

When he emerges completely from under the sink, he sits up and rests an arm on his knee. “You need to go get some clothes on.”

“Huh?” I ask dumbly as I stare at him, trying to see if those tattoos perhaps make him a merciless killer that I’ve unwittingly invited into my house.

Kyle’s eyes flick down to my chest, and then back up again.

I slowly lower my eyes and immediately flush hot with embarrassment as I see my very wet white cotton nightgown is absolutely see-through, and there is no room left to the imagination as to whether or not the cold makes my nipples hard.

My arms fly up and I cover my chest. Spinning away from Kyle, I mutter, “I’ll be right back.”

With my face flaming, I slide my way across the floor and scurry to my room. While I’d very much like to crawl into bed and hide away from that man until he leaves, since he just practically saw me naked, I forcefully push my discomfort aside so I can get dressed quickly. I still have a very waterlogged house to deal with.





CHAPTER 5




Kyle


Christ, she’s a mess.

A soggy, hard-nippled mess. I’m glad she’s gone, so she doesn’t see the fact I got hard the minute she showed up at my front door and I saw her like that.

As soon as she disappears down her hallway, I push off the flooded floor and pick my tool bag up. Tossing the wrench inside, I lay it on the counter and look around to survey the damage.

It’s not overly bad. It appears she actually reacted pretty quickly, and with a straight head, by trying first to shut the water off under the sink and then attempting the main valve. There’s a lot of water on the floor, but if it gets cleaned up quickly, it probably won’t cause any floor damage.

I slide my gaze into the living room, seeing a quilt draped over the back of the couch. I slosh through the watery linoleum and nab the quilt before dropping it to the floor right where the open kitchen meets the living room. The water has already started streaming past the linoleum and onto the hardwoods, and those need protected the most. Luckily, the quilt is large enough that it quickly absorbs the bit of water that had reached the wooden flooring, while temporarily stopping the stream from going further.

I turn back into the kitchen, intent on raiding her drawers for at least dish towels, when I hear her gasp. I turn to see her standing just inside the kitchen—adequately dressed, so I can’t see her breasts anymore—her arms loaded with towels, but her eyes are pinned on the quilt I’d just tossed down.

“You didn’t just throw that quilt onto the water, did you?” she asks in disbelief, her eyes rounding in horror.

“Yeah, why?” I counter, quite grumpily because a thank you would have been nice.

Jane turns and stomps toward me, splashing water as she crosses the kitchen. She threw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a navy sweatshirt, but her feet remain bare. Her nails are painted a pretty light purple color.

She shoves the towels toward me, actually pushing them hard into my chest, as she snaps, “That’s a quilt my grandmother made me.”

Fuck.

Just… well, fuck.

I cautiously watch as she scoops the sodden quilt from the floor and just stares at it. I have no clue if I ruined it or not, but it looks okay to me. Just… wet.

Without another word, Jane turns to the front door and carries the quilt outside. I busy myself laying down the towels she unloaded on me, sopping up the mess, while throwing glances at her through the open door. She takes the quilt and stretches it across the front porch rail, which is already bright with the eastern sun that just rose above the Atlantic not long ago.

The minute I get all the towels laid out, I turn to the first one and pull it up. I take it to the sink and wring as much of the water out as I can before throwing it back down to sop up more. I repeat this process a few times, and then Jane comes back in and starts to do the same. We work side by side in silence, and I have to wonder why I’m still in this house helping her. I fixed her immediate problem, and she’s well equipped to deal with the rest.