Coming ine box set, p.116
Coming in Hot: Rescue Me Box Set, page 116
“I’m still sorry you lost your partner,” I said.
Nick took a deep breath and stared at the boot in his hand for a moment before looking up at me. “Let’s not talk about it. We can’t change what happened, and I don’t feel like brooding right now or I’ll go fucking crazy.”
“Coffee? Hot chocolate? Tea?” I asked, trying to tear my gaze away from the way his jeans tightened around his buttocks when he bent over to drop his boots next to mine by the door. By comparison, my jeans were rolled at the bottom six or seven times because I was short. They came from a thrift shop, and I’d intended to hem them, but I never had because I was a lazy ass. I was pretty sure my sweater had a hole in one elbow exposing the ribbed shirt I wore beneath it. Living solitary or not, I had to up my sartorial game.
“I’d love a cup of coffee.” Nick crossed the room to stand before the huge fireplace. The river rock hearth seemed to mesmerize him.
“Almond milk okay? It’s hard to keep up a lot of dairy when you only grocery shop once a month or so.” I watched him bend to retrieve a log to toss onto the low-burning fire. “You can get the almond milk in the cartons that don’t have to be refrigerated until you open them.”
He bent yet again to retrieve a poker so he could prod at the fiery logs. I knew I ought to be feeling sorry for the guy, not lusting after him, but, Jesus, his jeans were tight.
He spared me a glance over his shoulder. “I take it black. Two sugars. I’m pretty sure sugar is easy to keep stocked up even with shopping once a month.”
Great. Not only was he listening to my inane babbling, he was mocking me.
“Your loss. Almond milk is crazy delicious,” I said, whirling to stalk off to the kitchen. It was only when I caught sight of myself in the window’s reflection that I realized I still had on my knit cap. At least the wind had given my cheeks a healthy, pink glow even if my lips were slightly chapped.
I ripped the cap off my head and immediately regretted it when my tangled hair tumbled down to my shoulders and stuck up every which way thanks to my friend, static electricity.
“Goddamn it.” I hastily tried to smooth it down. Why hadn’t I braided it before putting on the hat? Now it was all over the place and in my eyes, and my fingers were just making it worse, not better.
“Everything okay?” Nick asked from the living room where he’d parked himself in one of the squashy leather recliners. He let out a contented sigh when he found the button that elevated his legs.
“Make yourself at home,” I muttered, slamming open the cabinet door to find the coffee. I scooped some grounds into the stove-top percolator and turned on the gas. I had to go on tiptoe to reach down the handmade milk jug. I normally poured milk directly from the carton, but for some stupid reason I wanted to impress the FBI agent currently standing by the built-in bookcases surveying the hardback classics that lined the shelf. When the hell had he gotten up from the chair?
“Mystery buff?” he asked, taking down a first-edition Agatha Christie I’d been left as part of my legacy. He idly flipped through the pages.
I bit my lip, trying not to scream. Those books were meant to be looked at from a distance, not paged through like cheap paperbacks. The bottom shelves housed the books meant to be read. Not that I wanted him to look there since all he’d find would be romances. Most of them featuring half-naked men cradling big-busted women on their covers. I couldn’t win with this guy.
I winced as he replaced the book with a casual indifference. Then he bent to the bottom shelves, and even the sight of his magnificent glutes couldn’t distract me away from a horrible building embarrassment.
“Love’s Treachery,” he read aloud, the bastard. “Betrayed by the Baron. Sugar Sweet. Naked Torso Tango.”
“Oh, shut your damn mouth. You made that last one up.” Mortified, I wished I was out in the whirling snow in deathly peril of freezing to death. Anything was better than this humiliation.
“I’m not judging,” he said, straightening.
“The hell you aren’t!” In my agitation, I nearly dropped one of the pottery mugs I was moving around the granite-topped breakfast bar for some inexplicable reason. Probably to keep my hands from strangling him. “Naked Torso Tango, my ass.”
“Sorry, that was a cheap shot. But seriously, don’t any of these romance novel heroes have heads?” Nick asked.
“They have heads,” I said, affronted. “Nice, normal heads. Not big, swelled heads like some smartass federal agent I know.”
“Well, their heads might not be swelled, but I’m sure their –“
“Stop!” I shrieked, clapping my hands to my ears. “We are not going to have this discussion. I read romances. That’s not a crime, so back off.”
“Not a crime in the legal sense, but surely of taste,” he murmured.
“Oh, screw you. Romance is the most popular genre in writing today. People want to read about love working out and happy endings. What do you read? Gritty true crime novels? Dark noir crap that depresses the shit out of anyone brave enough to pick up the book? Black covers with fonts that look like dripping blood?”
“I think that would be horror, actually,” Nick said, sweeping a hand through his thick black hair. My knees weakened, and I leaned against the counter cursing him and my treacherous hormones.
“The last thing I want to read is true crime or even fictionalized crime. I get enough of that in real life, and, bonus, there aren’t glaring authorial errors to try to wade through.”
“So what do you read then?” The rich smell of coffee filled the air.
“Fantasy if you must know. Science fiction sometimes, too,” he replied.
“So you like elves?” I snorted. “You’re on my ass for naked torsos when you like wizards in star-spangled pointy hats and long-haired elves with big doe eyes whispering make believe runic languages?”
“What the hell kind of fantasy have you been reading?” He rolled his eyes and grinned disarmingly.
“Gandalf wore a pointy hat. Elves had their own language in Tolkien,” I declared as if I were captain of the debating team making a particularly crushing argument.
“There’s a whole world out there beyond Tolkien,” he told me, still smirking.
“Well, l don’t want to take a journey through a time portal and visit there. I’ll take my contemporary romances, thank you very much.”
“Fine,” Nick said. “I wasn’t aware we were going to be spending much time reading this weekend, but if we are, I’ll take the Agatha Christies.”
“Just what the hell did you think we would be doing, you pervert?” I wondered, only to have him give me a speculative grin that seemed to mentally undress me. From the way his eyes danced, he probably pictured me wearing granny panties and an old, tattered bra, too.
“I always suspected nurses had dirty minds,” he said. And the bastard winked at me!
“Your coffee’s ready, you depraved asshole.” I rescued the coffee pot from boiling over, and splashed liquid into both mugs. If it hadn’t been only ten-thirty, I would have been pouring myself a huge glass of wine. Why the hell was as I prickly as a needle and letting this guy get under my skin? Sure, he was gorgeous, but I should be immune to his bullshit. At least, I wanted to be.
Until he came around the other side of the breakfast bar, I’d thought the galley kitchen was rather roomy. Somehow he took up most of the space, especially when he spooned sugar into his mug and brushed his arm against mine.
A tingle of delightful electricity zinged through me at his touch. From the way he glanced at me beneath his lowered lashes, I knew he’d felt it, too.
“Sorry,” he said, moving away, but his smile belied his apology.
Buttons jumped on the breakfast bar to inspect our mugs. He stared at me with disappointed, baleful green eyes. He was not a coffee fan.
“Hello there, big boy.” Nick reached out to ruffle the fur on Buttons’ head. I waited for Buttons to bat at him irritably with a clawed paw. He was also not a fan of being ruffled.
Instead, the traitorous cat purred and nudged Nick’s hand, demanding more pets.
“Clearly, you are a terrible cat lady,” Nick remarked, chucking Buttons under the chin and nearly making him drool. The cat’s eyes glazed over in pleasure and his rattling purr all but deafened me. “I’ve never seen a cat so eager for the slightest scrap of affection.”
“He must be hungry,” I snapped, glancing down at his food bowl on the floor. Full, damn it.
“Oh, Buttons, she’s jealous of us, I think.” Nick scooped the cat up in his arms and held him like a baby. The cat went limp with bliss as Nick rubbed his furry belly.
I surveyed him, my lip curled. “I do believe a secret crazy cat lady lurks beneath that manly special agent exterior.”
“Busted.” Nick tickled Buttons under the chin again before setting him down on the floor. The damn cat leaped back onto the breakfast bar before I could even take a breath.
When I tried to pet him, he evaded my outstretched hand and jumped up, bracing his front paws on Nick’s chest so he could rub his fat head against Nick’s bristly chin.
“God, disgusting.” I took my mug into the living room to brood on the sofa. When a girl can’t even count on her cat, what can she rely on?
Cradling the cat in one arm while carrying his mug with his free hand, Nick followed me. He took a seat on the recliner and set his mug on the stone coaster on the hand-carved end table. Buttons draped himself across Nick’s lap and promptly fell asleep. Asshole cat.
“Pretty nice stuff,” he said, glancing around. “Not what I imagined when you said you had a little cabin, frankly.”
“Are you asking if I’m rich?” I drew my knees up against my chest. Prime brooding position.
“I kinda don’t have to ask,” he said, surveying the expensive porcelain figurines on the mantel.
“It’s not mine,” I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. Because it damn well was mine. Only I hadn’t bought any of it. I’d changed very little since inheriting the cabin. My clothes and books and Buttons’ toys and bed were practically the only updates. Even though I’d spent the better part of two winters here, it still, somehow, didn’t feel like my place. As if I were a pampered guest or something.
Maybe because nothing felt real and lasting to me anymore. Not since – I stomped that thought to death before it could finish unspooling and concentrated on my knees. Was that a hole, damn it?
“Good coffee.” Nick took an appreciative sip.
“It’s percolated. It makes a difference. Better than coffee makers.” I resisted the urge to pick at the ragged threads around the definite hole in my knee.
“Maybe you have a knack,” he suggested.
I shook my head. “I’m of average coffee-making ability. Trust me. I could do the same thing with a regular coffee maker and you’d be underwhelmed.”
“So far nothing you’ve done has underwhelmed me,” he said.
I raised my head suspiciously. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Special Agent?”
He held up a placating hand. “I make it a point to never flirt with women whose names I don’t know.”
I shut my eyes and sighed. “Sorry. I swear living alone is slowly erasing all my social graces. I’m Lucy Cameron.”
“So why do you?” he asked, leaning forward, careful not to dislodge the snoring cat in his lap. “Live alone?”
I gritted my teeth. I’d walked right into that one. “I meant living alone on the top of a mountain. I have an apartment in Clark, and you should see my social life there. I manage at least two parties a month, and even go to the movies now and then with a group of friends.”
“But nobody special? Nobody male?” he persisted.
“Wow, you’re old-fashioned. Now do I have to listen to some When Harry Met Sally crap about how men and women can’t be friends? Lots of my friends happen to be male for your information.”
“I meant romantically.” The man had no shame. “The only naked torsos around your bed are on the covers of books?”
“If this is a sample of your interrogation method, no wonder people hate the FBI so much,” I observed, hoping my blush wasn’t too noticeable.
“I’m not interrogating. I’m flirting,” he said with a rakish grin.
“I thought you didn’t flirt --” I began.
“With women whose names I don’t know. I know yours now. Lucy.” The way he said my name, sort of low and dark, made me shiver involuntarily. I hoped he’d think it was just the chill in the air.
“On the whole, I think I prefer being interrogated.” I wriggled my toes inside my socks. God. Was that the beginning of another hole?
He threw back his head and laughed so loud he woke Buttons.
“Sorry, bud,” he said, stroking the cat back to sleep. How the hell’d he do things like that?
He transferred his attention back to me and the sultry, speculative gleam in his eye galvanized me off the sofa and onto my feet.
“We’re having vegetable soup for lunch. Which reminds me, I’ve got bread rising on the counter. Time to put it in the oven.”
“You make your own bread?” He sounded impressed.
“Don’t get too excited. It comes frozen. All I do is put it in a bread pan, cover it with a tea towel, and wait twelve hours before sticking it into the oven.” I hurried across the wooden floor to the kitchen. Surely he wouldn’t follow me. Not with a sleepy cat in his lap. He showed that cat way more consideration than he did me.
“Sounds delicious,” he enthused. “The soup comes from a can, I take it?”
“Sacrilege,” I retorted. “Who eats soup from a can when making fresh is so easy? I make tons of it and freeze it.”
He laughed beneath his breath, but loud enough for me to hear. “You are a contradictory woman, aren’t you, Lucy Cameron?”
“And you’re an insufferably conceited man, Nick Astin,” I muttered, but by his laugh, he heard me.
“Why am I conceited? Because I think you’re a beautiful woman and I like to flirt?”
“Beautiful. Right.” I snorted, catching sight of my crazy hair in the window again. Why hadn’t I thought to put on eyeliner at least this morning?
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” He asked.
I sighed and stared at him from across the breakfast bar.
“Obviously not,” I said, pulling at a big tangle in my hair.
“After you put the bread in to bake, bring me your brush. I love to brush women’s hair,” he said, with an inviting grin.
“I’ll bring you Buttons’ brush. If you’re so anxious to brush something, try his fur. He loves it. I, on the other hand, am perfectly capable of brushing my own hair.”
“You’d never know that by looking at you,” he murmured, and before I could stop myself I threw the coffee spoon at his big head. I missed spectacularly because the room wasn’t called a great room for nothing.
“Truce,” he said, laughing. “I know your hat messed up your hair, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” I pouted as I set the oven for preheat. “I look like a homeless person.”
“You don’t,” he said gently. “Seriously, I will brush your hair. Like I said, I enjoy doing that.”
“Have a lot of practice at it, do you, Mister FBI Agent? Your wife like it, maybe?”
“No, Miss I’m So Subtle I Squeak, I’m not married. Between girlfriends, too, much to your good luck.”
“Your idea of good luck seems like bullshit to me.” I eyed the bottle of wine on the counter, but the damn clock still only read ten forty-five.
“Come on,” he teased. “I’m quite aware you check out my ass every chance you get. That means you’ve noticed me, right?”
“Noticed your ass, sure,” I said through gritted teeth, my cheeks on fire. “Maybe I’m a sucker for a nice ass. But I’m not a sucker for a smooth-talking asshole. There’s a difference.”
“Why am I an asshole?” He sounded hurt, but his smirk gave him away for the liar he was.
“Just because we’re trapped here together for at least the weekend you think I’m so bored I’m going to strip off my clothes and invite you to get down and dirty with me. You’re not flirting. You’re insulting. You’d act the same with any reasonably attractive woman in this same position. It’s patently obvious you don’t give a shit about me.” I sucked in an aggrieved breath of air. “I’m just tits and ass, right? You think because I read romance novels and get lonely sometimes that I’d leap at the chance to be all over you. Well, think again, damn you. This is not a fucking romance novel. This is real life.”
I tried not to wince. Jesus, where had all that anger come from? Surely, I had more control than that? Shaking, I took a sip of coffee and forced myself to look at Nick.
All the flirty laughter had evaporated from his eyes and mouth. He stared at me, his expression slowly morphing to horrified remorse.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m an insensitive asshole. You’re right. If I could leave, I would.” A small grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “Maybe we could have separate corners or something.”
Mocking me again, damn him. Anger sloshed like battery acid around my guts.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I said. “Now you’re being an idiot. You never know when to stop talking do you? Everything out of your mouth after ‘you’re right’ was overkill, and what’s worse, you know it, don’t you?”
He blew out his breath. “Trying to make an awkward moment even more excruciatingly horrible,” he said. “What can I say? It’s a gift.”
I tried not to laugh, but a snicker escaped me. God, he must think I was a lunatic.
“Honestly, I am sorry,” he said, his eyes dark. “I seriously never expected us to end up naked together, Lucy. I really was just flirting. Don’t you ever flirt?”
I clenched my jaw. “I hate meaningless crap like that. I prefer people be honest rather than cute.”
“I can be honest.”
I stared at him, debating his earnestness.
“Well, you can start by not calling me beautiful when it’s obvious I’m not.”
He shook his head. “Come on. Bedhead aside, you’re a beautiful woman.” He held up both his hands. “Not that I’m flirting. I’m simply stating an empirical truth.”
