“And that’s my cue.” Faith looked away from the couple fused at the lips and met Connor’s gaze. His eyes snapped to the floor as a small smile curled his tempting mouth.
“Yeah.” He palmed his neck and turned for the dining room while she ducked into the sanctuary of the office.
At her desk, she thought of that gaze more than once. There was a dose of heat beneath the protectiveness. And damn if it didn’t occupy her thoughts for most of the afternoon.
* * *
By six that evening, the sun was low in the sky. Connor had put in a full day preparing for Harvest Fest at Library Park. He returned to the mansion, satisfied when he found Faith there. Good. She’d listened to him. He wondered after she had argued earlier.
He shut his truck door, strode to the porch, and let himself in, encountering the leggy blonde in the foyer. She pulled her purse onto her shoulder, keys in her palm.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Her slim, fair eyebrows slammed down. Okay. Maybe she hadn’t listened to him. She seemed prepared to leave without him tonight. Not gonna happen.
“Where am I going?” she repeated. “I am going to get in my car and drive to my apartment and open a bottle of wine and watch something on my television.” As if he didn’t get by her intentionally slow inflection she was angry, she capped that statement by marching to the front door.
He opened it for her. “Right behind you.”
She spun to face him, fanning her subtle floral perfume into his face. It mirrored her: soft, delicate. A scent he couldn’t quite pick out. And he knew flowers. Maybe it was the way it mixed with her skin that muddled his mind, but damn. Angry or not, he wanted to haul her close and have a closer inspection. “Connor, I appreciate this. I do. I would just rather forget about it.”
Can do. He shrugged. “Forgotten.”
“Thank you.” Her shoulders sagged with what he guessed was relief.
“Still following you home, though.”
Those shoulders went rigid and she growled low in her throat. Then she walked out the door and clopped down the cobblestone drive.
Grinning, he shut off the light in the foyer and followed the trail of flowers and sass out the front door.
CHAPTER 4
Faith watched in her rearview mirror as Connor followed her home. So much for blowing him off tonight. She parked on the curb as she normally did, hooked her purse on her shoulder as she normally did, and walked up the stairs like she normally d—
“Whoa.”
A firm hand wrapped around her upper arm and tugged her back. She was now close enough to Connor to feel his body heat at her back. In the cool autumn air, his heat felt nice. Not to mention he smelled incredible. Some earthy, natural, spicy smell that was at once clean and manly.
Tone low and serious, he said, “I’m going first.” Before she could argue, he stepped in front of her and took the stairs. And then she forgot to argue at all.
Connor McClain’s ass had not missed her radar.
In her world, where men were amoeba at worst (Michael) or where she noted passing attraction with zero sparks (Brady), noticing this man was unnerving. And so far she’d noticed nearly every detail about him. Yes, her permanently single, spark-less radar had still picked up on the incredible backside now hovering a step or two above her.
His jeans were snug, not too tight—just tight around butt and thigh area. And, oh yeah, she had seen this pair before. They were distressed, faded along the seams and the bottom of the pockets, and contoured his body perfectly.
Unfair really, she thought as she followed him up the stairs. Why did he have to be this painfully good-looking when she’d banished herself to a land of Singledom?
He reached her front door and bent, studying the lock on the knob and the deadbolt. She crossed her arms, losing patience. For one, she had to pee. For another, she didn’t want him here anyway.
“Can I go in now?”
He didn’t answer, simply walked past her to inspect the balcony. The balcony wasn’t connected to the landing, so there was a space. A considerable amount of space. There was also a concrete ledge. A ledge he climbed onto and balanced on while resting one palm on the side of the building.
“Oh my God! Get down before you kill yourself!” Seriously, it was two stories. He might not die but he could break his leg.
He ignored her. No surprise there. Giving the gutter a solid tug, he rested his hand on it as he leaned forward. Then he gauged the distance between the ledge and balcony, crouched, and in one smooth jump, breached the gap. Like a cat—or a super-buff Spider-Man—he landed on his feet and pushed himself to standing.
She let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “You know, I could’ve let you in and we could’ve walked through the house together.”
Silent, he inspected the lock on the balcony door with the light on his phone.
Talking to herself now, since she was the only one who would respond anyway, she got her keys out and shoved them in the lock. “Fine. I will just let myself in.”
Inside, she flipped on the light in the kitchen, illuminating her small space. By the time she set her purse on the kitchen table, she heard the balcony door slide open.
Connor wore a scowl as he prowled over to where she stood. “I’m in your apartment.”
Startled, her eyes went from him to the ajar balcony door. “I see that.”
“Whoever was here last night didn’t succeed in getting in, but I did.” His scowl remained. “I don’t like that.”
Well. She didn’t like that, either.
“I’m staying.”
“You’re…staying?” She blinked. “Here?”
“You have a couch.”
“I…”
“Faith. I’m in your apartment.”
Yes. He was.
“If I can get into your apartment, so can someone else.” He looked more concerned than smug.
And now that he’d proven what Officer Brady Hutchins had already eluded to—that gaining entry to her apartment was not at all difficult—she found herself in agreement with Connor’s plan to stay.
She nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
After she used the restroom and changed into a pair of yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt, she walked into the kitchen to pull a bottle of wine from the cabinet. Connor was perched on the sofa, digging through a black bag he had retrieved from his truck.
“Do you always travel with an overnight bag?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She waited for him to expound. He didn’t. “Would you like some wine?”
Without looking over his shoulder, he said, “No.”
Of course not. He was a beer-from-the-bottle-kind-of-guy if she’d ever seen one.
“Well, you should have some. It’s delicious.”
He stood and she heard a clicking sound, and she nearly dropped the bottle in her hand when she saw the gun in his. She set the bottle onto the countertop with a little too much force, alarm evident in her voice. “What’s that for?”
“Protection.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Gun safely tucked into the back of his waistband, he crossed to the kitchen and stood close enough to her to muddle her senses. He really did smell good.
“Cupcake, I’m not going to stay here with you unarmed. Not without a security system in place and not when anyone could walk through your balcony door.”
A shudder rattled her spine and she forcibly tried to hide it. She didn’t like the idea of anyone walking through her balcony door.
He pushed the sleeves of a pale gray henley over his elbows and took the wine bottle from her hand. Then he lifted the opener from the counter and had the bottle open in a matter of seconds. He tossed the wrapper from the neck of the bottle into the trash and stood the cork on its end next to the bottle. Wordlessly, he walked back into the living room and sat down on her couch.
She blinked at his broad back. “I thought you didn’t dri
nk wine.”
He didn’t even turn his head. “I’m not drinking it tonight.”
Alrighty, then.
She poured herself a glass, and after debating whether she would behave differently with him in her space, decided not to. He was the one who wanted to stay here. He was going to have to make his way around her.
At the counter, she paused. He looked good in her living room, big arms laid across the back of her couch, leg crossed, ankle to knee, and that masculine way she’d always admired. More important, she did feel safer with him here. There was an ease, a confidence, about him that set her at ease, too.
Pulling her shoulders back, she tried to act casual as she strode into the living room and plopped down onto the opposite end of the couch. “So. What do you usually do in the evening?” She took a sip of her wine.
When he didn’t answer right away she turned her head to the left. Elbow propped on the couch’s arm, he rubbed his bottom lip with the side of his index finger. “Not much.”
Even in the long-sleeved shirt, she could make out the bulge of his biceps and rounded, muscular shoulders. No wonder she felt safe with him. He could snap an intruder in half with one hand.
“What do you usually do in the evening?” He was still staring at her, his mouth kicked up into a small smile on one side. He was also still rubbing his lip with his finger, which was beyond distracting.
“I…um.” She jerked her eyes away from his mouth and looked down at her glass. “I usually drink a glass of wine, watch some television, and then take a bath.” When he was silent for too long, she looked up at him again.
“I am down with that plan.” His small smile widened into a grin.
She allowed herself a smile. “You are not following me into the bathroom. You can protect me from out here.”
He leaned farther into the corner of her couch, looking totally at ease. “I’m not sure about that.” His grin persisted and she felt her head shake.
This was the way it normally was with him. Not the closed-lipped military badass silently inspecting every inch of her living quarters, but the easygoing, super-flirtatious, drop-dead gorgeous man teasing her right now.
Amazing she’d been able to resist him at all. But then that hadn’t really been on either of their agendas, had it?
She cleared her throat. “How was your date last night?” Eyes on her wine, she tried to sound mildly interested, not pathetically nosy. She wasn’t sure she pulled it off.
“Fine.”
Fine.
Twisting her lips, she flicked her eyes over to him. “What did you do?”
“Fixed her car.”
“Oh.” Well, that didn’t sound very romantic.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just making polite conversation.” Nervous now, her gaze bounced around the room.
“Wasn’t a date,” he said next, and she snapped her head around to meet his eyes. Mischief danced in his expression, his tempting mouth lifting into another sexy, distracting curve. “Just told you that to bother you. I was at my sister’s house.”
Flustered, she shook her head. “I’m not bothered by who you date.”
But his smile suggested he knew she was fibbing.
Wine in hand, she leaned forward and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. Maybe what she needed to do was stop talking. “You have to watch what I watch, and no complaining.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Cupcake.” He produced a water bottle from that black bag of his and leaned back against the couch, re-crossing his leg. “Flattered you asked about my date,” he mumbled after he took a drink.
She pretended not to hear him and flipped through the channels.
* * *
Faith didn’t make it to the bathtub. After the sleepless night he guessed she’d had the night before, it didn’t surprise him when her eyes grew heavy and she rested her head against his shoulder.
It did surprise him she’d poked at him about his “date.” She was interested, which automatically made this venture with her more interesting.
Sometime in the middle of whatever reality show marathon they were watching—some sort of desperate housewife type of thing—he had gone to her tiny, open kitchen to make a snack. He settled on microwave popcorn, bringing the bowl back to the couch to share. He sat on the center cushion. Faith had scooted closer. Which meant when she nodded off, the side of her head conked onto his shoulder.
He didn’t have the heart to move her. He did, however, have the sense to sneak the remote out from between their legs and turn the freaking channel. Good God, he thought as the channel winked away from the puffy-lipped, smooth-faced woman currently swearing her hair extensions off. He’d never seen so much plastic surgery in his life. How did Faith watch this crap?
After settling on the Travel Channel, on a survival show—a show, unlike her choice, that could prove useful in life—he settled back into the couch. The woman leaning on his shoulder migrated south, reaching for the afghan on the back of the couch and covering herself as she settled a cheek onto his lap.
Faith Garrett in his lap. He had imagined this a time or three. But never like this: because she was too tired to go to bed and he was watching over her. More because she’d whispered something treacherously dirty into his ear and then pulled his pants open with her teeth.
He pulled a hand down his face and blinked at the television. Yeah, he really needed not to think about that right now. Not that he minded being here—he wanted to protect her. But he would prefer she didn’t need protecting from anything. He didn’t want her in danger, period.
Outside her front door and balcony earlier this evening, he had noticed scratches around the locks. Scratches either Officer Brady Hutchins had missed, or new scratches that had occurred today while Faith was at work. Curious to see how hard it would be to get into her apartment, he produced a small pick from his pocket and found himself standing in her living room within seconds. Not good. Not good at all.
Sometime around two a.m., a motion sensor light went off in the parking lot, snapping him out of the television’s drone. His spine straightened, his senses sharpened, his breathing went shallow. Faith slept deeply. Keeping as quiet as possible, he sat stone still and listened.
After a few seconds the light clicked off, and he grabbed a pillow from the couch, gently lifting her head and extracting his thigh in the process. Her hair felt like silk against his fingertips, her lashes fluttering ever so slightly as she slept. A surge of protectiveness swelled in him stronger than before.
She snuggled deeper into the sofa. He liked the idea of her warm and safe. And the idea he’d given her both those bare necessities. He watched another few seconds in case she woke. She didn’t.
Good. She needed her rest. Faith may be trying to play the tough girl, but he could see she’d been scared. She’d agreed pretty quickly to let him stay. Not that he would’ve taken no for an answer.
He crept to the balcony door, slid it open, and slipped outside. The light out here had no bulb. Which was not safe. Shaking his head, he vowed to replace it tomorrow, then kept close to the wall before tentatively poking his head over the balcony.
Tingling at the back of his neck—a premonition similar to when he was at war—alerted his senses and drew his attention to the grass. He allowed his eyes to focus on the dark, get acquainted with the sights and sounds of the night. Crickets chirping. Trees blowing, their deadened leaves rustling softly.
A shadow stretched across the grass—visible even in the dark. Connor’s spine snapped straight. His own shallow breaths filled his ears. Muscles flexed, he pressed to the side of the building to be sure he wasn’t seen. The shadow belonged to a man, he guessed. That shadow shortened as dark clothing came into view, and a jacket with a hood looked in his direction.
Then that dark shadow was running. Not bothering to stay silent any longer, Connor darted back into the apartment.
“What’s going on?” Faith was sitting up now, eyes wide open.
&
nbsp; “Stay put.” He threw open the front door, pausing to instruct her. “And lock me out.” He waited while she hustled to the door, and when he heard the snick of the deadbolt, he ran down the stairs three at a time, holding on to the handrails so he didn’t get a face full of concrete at the bottom. He may have lost the chase in those few seconds he’d waited for her to lock herself in, but protecting her was his mission. If she had any prayer of sleeping soundly in the future, it hinged on him catching this dirtbag.
Once his feet hit the grass, he took off at full speed in the direction he saw the figure vanish. After sprinting for about thirty yards, he came to a stop, hands on his hips. Catching his breath, he looked around but saw nothing.
Nothing. Whoever had been sneaking around her apartment was gone. He walked back to the building, still on high-alert, eyes peeled in case the guy was hiding around a tree or behind a car. Frustration at the fruitless chase had him growling in the back of his throat. So close. So fucking close.
He crossed the parking lot and angled a glance up at Faith’s balcony. She stood, wrapped in the blanket from the couch, her hands holding the railing, elbow-length fair hair blowing in the soft breeze.
Delicate. She was so delicate. Just seeing how vulnerable she was made it hard for him to take his next breath. What could have happened if he hadn’t been here tonight? She’d never know, he thought, rage clenching his fists. He hadn’t felt that surge of protectiveness since Afghanistan. No moment had come close to the moment when a hot blast echoed over his skin and sent him running straight for the helpless mother and child huddled in a doorway. He hadn’t succeeded. This time, he would.
“Everything okay?” Faith called down to him. He saw the worry lighting her fragile features—even from two floors down. No way would he leave her on her own until he was sure she was safe.
“Everything’s okay,” he confirmed, the final dab of adrenaline ebbing from his bloodstream. Everything wasn’t okay. But it would be. As soon as he handled it. Until then, she was gonna stick to him like peanut butter on the roof of his mouth.
A Bad Boy for Christmas Page 4