Shameless(13)

I look down and realize I’m only wearing black boxers, and my morning wood is threatening to make an escape. Shit.

Quickly, I roll over and grab the sheet on my way to cover my junk.

“Sorry. I should have given you a minute before I barged in. I just need—” She races by, half covering her face until she reaches the desk. “Just need Mel’s address book.” Using the book to hide her eyes again and the other one to hang on to Izzy, she darts back across, and I marvel at the little cyclone. I can’t decide if she’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen or a complete disaster.

I expect her to run out the door, but she pauses to make this little clicking sound with her tongue and say, “C’mon, babies. It’s time to eat. ?Venga!”

Before meeting Katherine, I never thought Southern accents were very appealing, but hers is charming. And the Spanish? Yeah, that’s sexy.

She clicks again, and three kittens and that f*cking raccoon go scrambling over me and follow Katherine like she’s the Pied Piper. My eyes lift a little higher, in time to catch her curvy ass waltz away in a pair of form-fitting jeans, which does nothing to help my boner.

I lie back on the floor and rub my face again.

No, you cannot lust after the babysitter, *.

One ice-cold shower later—no, not because I need to get a handle on my dick, because I would’ve gladly jerked one out in the shower, but because the hot water was out—and I’m throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. How I’ve gotten this far today without coffee is an outright miracle, but I’m not particularly excited about talking to Katherine this morning after nearly flashing her my goods.

I really don’t want to make this more awkward than it is. I don’t know why I kept hugging her last night. She just wouldn’t stop crying and the last thing I’m prepared to deal with right now is a distraught woman. And I definitely don’t want her to think I’m some giant creep.

Fortunately, the kitchen is empty when I walk in. Except there’s a plate in the middle of the table with foil and a note with my name on it. Make yourself at home. Here’s breakfast. If you’re a vegan or a vegetarian, don’t tell me. It’ll ruin my impression that you barbecue roadkill. Just kidding! Kinda.

I laugh. She’s a riot, that one.

Something about her message relaxes me. She seems like a cool girl, the kind who wouldn’t get the wrong idea about a couple of hugs.

Girl? Sure, Katherine looks young, but nothing about her body says she’s a girl. She’s about five-five and slender but with curves a guy would want to travel.

Yeah, no more hugging Katherine.

This whole thing—the trip, my brother, not sleeping in days—is messing with my head. I’ve never been one of those douchebags who can’t hug girls because he wants to hump their leg.

Last year when Dani was bawling her eyes out on my shoulder because that * treated her like crap, I could hug her and not want to strip her naked. And I definitely had a thing for Dani.

But here’s what really gets under my skin about Katherine. She smells good. Really good. When she nestled into my arms last night, her floral scent—light and sweet and innocent—overwhelmed me.

And then afterward, I noticed how her scent was everywhere. The sheets. The pillowcase. The shower. Oh, God. The shower. She must use some fancy bath gel because when I walked in there, all I could think about was her. Wet and sudsy and silky soft.

Fuck me.

Maybe I’ll just stock the bathroom with Dial and Head & Shoulders and hope she lays off the Victoria’s Secret Hot Bod 3000 products.

A guy can hope.





8





Katherine





As I clean out Sampson’s stall, I keep one eye on Bella, who’s playing with a few toys in a playpen under the shade of an oak tree. Even though it’s almost the end of November, it’s warm today. That’s the thing about Texas winters. One day you’re shivering and the next you’re running around in shorts.

A quick glance to my ratty watch tells me I have forty minutes before the funeral home calls me back with a cost estimate, so I need to hurry.

Grunting as I lift a bale of hay, I scoot it deeper into the barn. Brady told me he wanted to help today, but his phone has been ringing all morning. I’ve only popped in the office to bring him a sandwich. That’s when I offered to help with the funeral arrangements because he looked stressed out trying to juggle calls from the funeral home and his father’s cardiologist.

Otherwise, I’ve left him alone. Truthfully, I’ve barely been able to make eye contact with him since I barged in on him this morning.

Him sprawled on the floor with the kittens and Bandit attacking his legs was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. But then I got a look at him. A good look. And holy mother of all hotness.

The ink is what got my attention first. Tattoos swirled across his hard chest in colorful streaks. I couldn’t help but ogle his sleek muscles that stretched down his ridged stomach.

I wish I could say my wandering eyes stopped there because, if they had, I wouldn’t be a nervous wreck right now. But no, the little traitors slipped farther down to the bulge in his boxers.

And let me just say that Brady is fully loaded.

I fan myself, not sure if I’m sweating because the afternoon sun has finally popped out or if Brady has fried my brain.