No Perfect Hero(16)

But then he says stay with me, so I can protect you.

I mean, it makes sense. We can’t just up and leave right now, and he needs to make arrangements for us to go somewhere. But until then, he wants to make sure he’s standing between us and whatever wave of mess is crashing down, floodwaters threatening to drown us in his mess.

That's not why I feel strange.

Maybe it’s not the situation.

Maybe it’s him, making me feel like I’m dealing with two completely different men.

One dangerous and cold and grim, this wary animal raising hackles and baring teeth to defend his territory.

And one worried, tired, withdrawn, sad...the beast wounded, yet still shoving himself between me and danger to protect me because that’s what’s in his nature.

Both men, both beasts, twist me up inside and make me remember how his hands felt gripping my shoulders, that light touch against my cheek, skimming to rough.

I don’t know how to reconcile the two whenever I look at Warren.

But I don’t know how to separate them, either.

By the time I’m done putting together my overnight bag and making sure we haven’t left any valuables among the things we’ll be loading back in the car tomorrow, Warren’s taken his photos of the mess and left Flynn to clean it as best he can, the old man grumbling the entire time.

The paint won’t come off easy, not completely, not with the soap and water he’s using. So now there’s a red-tinted film over the glass, turning the light that streams through it pink.

But the feathers are gone. So I can stop letting my imagination run away with brutal possibilities when it’s just a fifty-cent bag of craft feathers smattered in paint.

Still.

I’m almost relieved when Warren opens his door and stands there with his arm stretched out holding it, ushering us inside. Forcing me to squeeze past him.

My body brushes his, sensing muscles so hard-cut I can feel every ridge of his abs as my chest and belly glide against it. There's all kinds of uh-oh chiseled in this mountain man.

For a moment I look up and wish I hadn't.

Because I catch a burning stare scorching me, raking me, grinding every point where flesh presses together and my body molds to conform to his.

I thought the term eye-fuck only existed in movies and romance novels but this...this is pure heat lightning. The most animal kind.

Our eyes linger far too long.

One of us has to give before Tara starts staring like we've lost our marbles, so it’s me. I flinch away, my belly twisted in hot little knots, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

Not until he clenches his jaw and looks away sharply, turning his glare into the cabin.

The broken chain of eye contact slaps me back to my senses, and I suck in a breath, duck my head, and dart inside. Before those blue fires in his eyes can hold me hostage again.

Holy hell, what's wrong with me?

I suddenly wish I could trade what's coming next for every bad roomie experience I left behind in Seattle combined.

Somehow, I'm going to have to survive more than stalker creeps with bad intentions and cheap craft supplies.

I have to survive the storm named Warren Ford.





4





Game, Set (Warren)





I think I just made one of the dumbest damned decisions of my adult life.

I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, telling that wildfire girl and her niece to stay with me tonight. Sure, I managed to get all my shit packed away in a walk-in closet that’s been closed with a chain and a padlock so they can’t get at anything – not my evidence, not my damn guns – so that’s not the problem.

The real problem's those searching looks Haley keeps giving me.

Like she can't believe what she's staring at.

Like she’s desperately trying to find out who I really am.

Then the way her body felt up against mine, tighter than a drum – fuck!

Her tits were soft, lush, almost swollen against my stomach. Those sparking, fiery eyes of hers went liquid, downright melty as she looked up at me like she wanted to ask a question but wasn’t sure what.

I can’t afford questions.

Much less this broad who's too hot for her own good figuring out who I am or what I’m after, or the distraction she provides.

Which is why, while her and Tara curl up on my couch to pick at leftover pizza and watch me in veiled sidelong looks, I make so many phone calls I feel like I’m lighting up the small-town phone tree with gossip.

There's got to be somebody to throw me a damn lifeline.

My friends, Blake and Doc, have nowhere for the girls to sleep. They both live like consummate bachelors in as little space as possible.

My old grade school teacher, Ms. Petty, would put them up in her spare room, but her niece is in for summer break from college, so it's sorry, dear, why can’t the girls stay at Charming Inn again?

And then I don’t have an answer for that.

Nor do I have an answer for my Aunt Gracie – not really an aunt by blood, just an older neighbor who’d babysit when I was a kid – whose guest room is undergoing renovation after a water pipe burst. Or Jenna's old friend, Shana, and her husband. He's happy to let them crash while Shana herself vetoes it with a bitter why should I let your new girlfriend shack up at my house rent-free again? You've got plenty of people who owe you favors, War.