Until You (The Redemption, #1)(4)

CHAPTER TWO


Tennyson




Is it hot in here or what? Whew.

I shift in my chair and reread the scene that’s playing out on my computer screen. One deliciously, sexy Delta Force agent, the defiant woman he’s supposed to be rescuing but who is fighting him at every turn, and the electric chemistry between them that just snapped, turning into an all-out greed fest of hands and lips and naked bodies.

My editor’s mind has gone to the wayside in the midst of this seriously hot sex scene. I’m supposed to be thinking about how it’s not feasible for him to have one hand on the wall and one hand on her neck while simultaneously holding her up against said wall with an additional hand . . . but I’m not.

I’ve gotten lost in the story. In their chemistry. In the damn good scene.

“You’re losing your mind, Tennyson,” I mutter as I rub my eyes and push back from the manuscript, clearly needing a break since I’m imagining myself as the heroine pinned against said wall.

While my daydreaming is a complement to the author’s abilities, it’s not exactly a positive when it comes to turning this copy edit around by my deadline.

But as I rise from my desk and move the few feet into the kitchen, the sweet ache in my lower belly is still there, a very present reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve had sex with someone, or rather something, other than my battery-operated boyfriend.

“And it’s going to be a long time yet,” I mutter still uncertain exactly how to navigate the relationship minefield after recovering from the chaos that used to be my life.

A life I loved until . . . I didn’t.

This life is better, Tenny. It’s one you built yourself. One you are in control of. One you don’t have to hide from.

Staying single is my . . . choice. And for now, I’ll just live vicariously through the stories I edit to satisfy those needs. Or at least I’ll convince myself that it’ll do the trick.

I turn on the kitchen sink to wash my hands and it shudders loudly, vibrating the entire counter and the stainless-steel sink with it.

And here we go again.

Nothing like shoddy plumbing to pull you out of a sexy, little daydream.

My groan floats through the kitchen and out the window. And maybe I make it even louder and more dramatic than necessary in the hopes that whoever Ian had move in and take over his landlord duties might hear it from his house. That the sound would have him rushing down here to fix this compiling list of issues I was promised he’d fix on day one of his arrival here.

Sounds like a romance novel that needs to be written. Nothing is sexier to a woman than a man who can use his hands and fix things.

Especially when those things are hot water and cool air and not worrying that a pipe is going to burst through your wall and flood your house.

But my dramatics go unanswered, seeing as the person I’m trying to summon is at least a football field length away.

That doesn’t stop me from pursing my lips and shooting undeserved daggers toward his house. Edit some more of my manuscript or finally confront the new guy I’m hoping will be way more responsive?

Besides, Ian’s parting comments were that his nephew had promised to fix all my issues within his first week of being here. That it was part of their agreement—whatever that meant.

And it’s been more than a week for sure. A few service type trucks have come and gone—pool service, appliance repair, and the like. The new resident himself has driven by numerous times without ever pulling down my little driveway and stopping to introduce himself.

I’m sensing the new guy has more of the same style as his uncle—avoid me until I take care of it myself just so I can get it done.

It’s not that I’m unsympathetic to the fact that Ian has had a clear decline in his mental health, but at the same time, I still have to live here.

I’m not a plumber or an HVAC expert. Those items are technical and a lot different than simply replacing a torn screen or dealing with a broken shutter.

I glance at my computer with the cursor still blinking and then back toward the house.

Work? Meeting the landlord and feeling out how I should approach him over my outstanding issues? Or heading into town to have a glass of wine at the Redemption Pub, where I’d get some socializing in, but no doubt, would cause gossip by simply being there?

When you’re called the “new girl in town” two years after you move there, you start rumors with everything you do outside of the normal routine.

And drawing attention to myself is the last thing I want to do.

I try the faucet again and am greeted with a moaning noise from the pipe this time.

The new landlord, it is.

“Wish me luck, Hani,” I say to my cat, curled up on the couch, flicking his tail in indifference, as I head out the front door and up the dirt drive.

I’ve caught glimpses of my summertime landlord. At least the male one I’m assuming is Ian’s great nephew. A tattooed arm angled outside of his open truck window, and a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes. But glimpses are all there are because once the cloud of dust plumes up behind the truck, I haven’t been able to see much more.

And despite not physically seeing his wife or children, I know there’s a family that comes with him. At least that’s my assumption, considering the shrieks and yelps and belly giggles that I catch a hint of every now and again when the breeze carries them my way.