No Perfect Hero(22)

“Swear jar,” Tara whispers quietly.

Great timing. This whole conversation is so surreal I have to hold my breath to keep from laughing out a lung.

“You have no clue what people here are like, Hay,” he growls. “Or what’s hiding under that niceness.”

“So?” I fold my arms over my chest, eyeing him up and down. “Guess I’m supposed to just appreciate you because at least you’re honest about being a jackass?”

“Swear jar,” Tara insists again, rubbing her nose.

“I’m not—” Warren huffs out a frustrated sound, muttering, and looks away, raking one hand back through his hair and spiking it up into fluffy tufts of black that only fall back into seething blue eyes. “Look, how much do you need to start over?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“How much, darlin'?” He scowls. “I’ll cover it. Transportation, repairs on the car, first and last month’s rent. Hell, I’ll even make sure you have enough to eat breakfast, lunch, and din—”

Enough.

I step forward, plant my palms against his chest, and shove like my life depends on it.

Nothing happens.

Not that I ever had a prayer of budging a human mountain, but it makes him shut up. Warren just stares down at me, hands held out helplessly at his sides, as if he’d wanted to grab me to stop me but thought better of it.

“You asshole,” I bite off, struggling against my closing throat, my welling eyes. “You asshole!”

“Auntie Hay...” Tara interjects one more time, another swear jar at the tip of her tongue.

But I’m well into losing it, snapping, about to blow up on the launch pad. And not even her ill-timed favorite quip can pull me out of laying into Mr. Popularity.

“I don’t know you,” I bite off. “You’re just the dick renting the other half of this cabin, but you come charging in like you get to decide my fate, my life. Like you can order me around, tell me what I can and can’t do, and I’m just over here trying to get my life back together! I don’t owe you anything, least of all a say in what I do or how I handle my problems. I sure as hell don’t want your—”

Every word in my mouth dries to nothing and crumbles to dust as he moves.

Warren hooks a powerful arm around my waist and drags me close, jerking me against his body and crushing me into the sleek, deadly shield that's all him.

Seething, sparking blue eyes glare down at me hotly.

Twisting me inside out as I instinctively clutch at his shoulders.

His bare shoulders, tattoos writhing under my palms, his skin as hot as a furnace, tanned and taut and pressed against me so close I feel like he’ll burn me to ash without breaking a sweat.

His hand is so huge against the small of my back. It spans my entire waist, branding into me, and I can’t breathe.

My lungs stall, and my lips part on words that won’t come as he leans down, those stern, almost cruelly beautiful lips parted as if he’ll...

Oh. My. God.

At first, I can’t tell if there's a pounding at the door or it's just my heart. But the noise makes Warren stiffen, stop, and let me go, the two of us bouncing apart like magnets with the wrong polarity, charged force shoving us away from each other.

Breathing hard, I press my hands to my overheated cheeks, staring blankly at nothing.

Way too freaking close.

With a growl like he knows it too, Warren pulls away, moving with that slow, animalistic lope as he strides toward the door.

Tara stares at me. I stare right back, sucking in a shallow breath, trying to make my stomach calm itself down.

What the hell was that, anyway?

For a second, I thought he was about to kiss me.

I lift my head at the sound of a stern but warm feminine voice from the door. Warren opens it to a trim, tall, older woman with a no-nonsense look about her, from the tidy bun of her silvered hair to the neatness of her pencil skirt and cardigan.

She's practically dressed for tea even on this hot summer morning. Her blue eyes strike me immediately. They’re the same shade as Warren’s. They've got to be family, considering how confidently she reaches up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down so she can lightly brush her lips to both of his cheeks, Parisian-style, before pulling back with a disapproving look.

“Really,” she says, a touch of amusement in her tone. “This is how you answer the door?”

“Wasn’t exactly expecting you, Grandma,” he says dryly, sounding for all the world like a chastised little boy.

I arch a brow. Grandma, huh?

Suddenly, I’m glad I decided to put on some clothing before taking over Warren’s kitchen to make breakfast.

Speaking of breakfast, if I’m not careful, I’m going to burn everything. Crap.

Turning, I quickly lower the burners on the stove and run the spatula through the bacon and the eggs, making sure they’re not stuck and ruined. As I dip to put the biscuits in the oven, though, I sense someone behind me.

Without warning, I'm face to face with Grandma herself. Jesus!

I stumble back with a yelp, bumping the stove closed with my butt accidentally.

Yet another family trait with Warren, moving like a damned cat and creeping up on people.

At least I manage not to burst out swearing. Grandma has a kind face, seamed into lines of laughter.