Fury on Fire (Devil's Rock #3)(33)

Patting herself dry, she wrapped herself in her thick terrycloth robe and padded barefoot downstairs. She opened her pantry and fridge, discovering she had everything she needed except for eggs. Stepping back, she considered if she actually wanted to get dressed, leave the house and go to the store. While she internally debated whether she wanted brownies that much, she heard the growl of a bike outside.

She moved to the window and peered out through the blinds, watching as North climbed off his bike. A bike that he parked behind her car.

Was he serious?

How was she supposed to go anywhere?

Before she could even think about it, she marched toward her door and yanked it open. Stalking outside into the night, her bare feet slapping over concrete, her robe whipping at her calves, she huffed furiously, knowing she must look like some kind of cartoon character with steam coming out of her ears. But for the love of God she didn’t care. It was the height of ridiculousness for him to think that was okay.

She was too annoyed to stop and think. Too annoyed to consider what she was wearing—or rather, what she wasn’t wearing. Too annoyed to think that this would be the first time (discounting the green-avocado-mask encounter) that she would be face-to-face with North Callaghan.

The evening air slid over her wet hair and inside the opening of her robe to her naked skin, but she did not care. She’d had it. Grabbing the belt at her waist, she cinched the robe tighter with resolve.

Dinner with Dad and Hale had been agonizing. Her date last night had been . . . nice . . . and that somehow rubbed her wrong, too. Nice was her grandmother’s banana bread. Damn it, she didn’t want banana bread.

And then there was this joker with a penchant for having loud sex at all hours, strutting around naked and sending her rated-R texts.

He refused to take her seriously.

She scanned the area for him. He was no longer in their driveway. She spotted him at his door. He looked up at the sound of her approach, turning to face her. Her feet charged toward him over the still-warm concrete.

His face was expressionless, his gaze hooded as it moved up and down her advancing form.

She stopped a couple feet in front of him and stabbed the air, coming close to touching his chest but not actually making contact. She wasn’t that bold. Even as pissed off as she was, she wasn’t about to get physical with the likes of this man. He had a criminal record.

Keeping her distance, she propped her hands on her hips. “You’re trying to provoke me, aren’t you?”

He angled his head. “What are you talking about?” Despite the spark in his brown gaze, his voice sounded bored, and that only pissed her off more.

She motioned to the bike. “You’re blocking my car.”

He sent a slow glance over his shoulder. “You going somewhere? It’s late. And a Sunday night. I figured you’d be inside baking muffins or scones or whatever.”

She ignored his jabs. “Is it so hard to park in the street?”

He shrugged, but the casual gesture seemed at odds with the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t want my bike to get sideswiped.”

Of course he had to sound reasonable. But he wasn’t. He was a jerk.

“So you just think it’s okay to park behind me. I might not have anywhere to go, right?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Were you waiting for me to come home to bawl me out?”

“No. I heard you drive up.”

His top lip curled in a sneer and she was torn between two overwhelming urges: either to stroke that well-sculpted mouth with her fingertips or smack him.

“Sure you did,” he drawled, taking a step closer that made her pulse jump at her neck. “You know, you could have just texted me and asked me nicely to move my bike. Instead you came out here half-cocked—” His gaze dropped. “Half dressed.”

She gaped. “Are you insinuating I’m looking for a fight?”

“I think you’re looking for something.”

There was no mistaking the sexual nature of that statement. Heat flushed through her. That heat sank deep and took up residence in all her girl parts.

“I don’t sit around staring out my blinds hoping to get a glimpse of you.” She managed not to wince. Okay, yeah, sometimes she did do that, but it would be the last thing she’d admit to.

He smirked and she knew he was remembering when she had watched him in the backyard—when he had been naked and touched himself.

She swallowed and took a few steps back.

He followed with a few steps forward.

“You got somewhere to be?” he asked.

After his jab about her baking scones, she wasn’t about to admit she wanted to make herself some brownies. “Yes.” Her chin went up.

“Yeah. Where?”

“None of your business.” She bumped into the wall of her house. “Just move your bike,” she bit out and turned.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her around to face him. Her hand went to the front of her robe, making sure it wasn’t gaping open.

He looked her up and down again. “The truth is I’ve had a shitty night, Faith Walters, and I don’t feel like having you read me the riot act.”

“Yeah? Well, I haven’t had the best night either.”

“No?” He seized her other hand then, the one gripping the front of her robe. Holding both hands in his, he tugged her toward him.