He tugged a pillow under his head, tucked another one under his arm, his eyes already drooping before he could even contemplate getting under the covers instead of laying stark naked on top of them…but that was the last thought he had.
Until she screamed.
He shoved up on his elbows and blinked the cobwebs away. He had no idea how long he’d been out, and for a moment thought maybe he’d just been dreaming. Then there came a loud clatter from somewhere outside the back of the house, which had him instinctively moving off the bed and ducking to look out the window in his room before he really put thought to deed.
There, almost directly down below, was Kirby Farrell, Proprietor, hanging from a rather high limb of a huge oak tree. If it hadn’t been for the season and total lack of foliage, he wouldn’t have seen her at all. Her feet and legs were wiggling as she tried to get a better grip on the branch, but it was clearly much bigger around than her slender hands.
He shoved the window open and stuck his head out. “Hang on, I’ll be right down.”
She angled her head to look up, then her eyes rounded and she struggled even more furiously as the movement seemed to loosen her already precarious grip.
Brett turned and headed for his bedroom door; then he belatedly realized he wasn’t wearing anything. He hopped into his jeans and snagged his shirt off the floor before running down the winding staircase, pulling the black tee over his head as he went. He had no idea where there might be a back door to the place, so just headed out the front and ran to the back. There he found a long ladder laying on the ground and the innkeeper still hanging on for dear life, far too high above him to drop safely to the ground, or for him to attempt to catch her. He didn’t see where he could climb the tree and get her down without risking shaking her off, so he grabbed the ladder and lifted it off the ground and tried to position it as close to her as he could.
“I’ll hold it steady,” he called up. “Just let me get it against the branch, then swing your leg over so you get your footing. Then you can let go with one hand and grab the side.”
To her credit, she wasn’t squealing or obviously freaking out. She didn’t yell back down to him, either, so he just worked to get the thing as stable as possible. “Okay, just swing your left leg over.”
He could see the grit and determination on her face and found himself still marveling a little over the dichotomy that was Ms. Farrell. She of the cool elegance and cultured features who would look perfectly at home in tutu and toe shoes…was presently swinging from a tree in baggy khakis, a hoodie, and a pair of well-worn hiking boots. He assumed she’d been wearing the very same thing earlier, but he honestly hadn’t noticed. All he remembered really were her soft gray eyes and prim-looking mouth, and the incongruous directness of her personality.
He heard her grunt, then lost about ten years off his life when one hand slipped off the limb just as her other leg caught the side of the ladder. “Grab the ladder! I’ve got you.”
He planted his bare feet in the scruff of winter grass and braced the ladder as best he could. Fortunately, while the width of the limb had made it hard for her to grab on to, it made for steady support for the ladder.
A few seconds later, she was safely on the top rungs and he let out a deep sigh of relief. “I’ll hold it while you come down,” he called up to her.
As yet, other than grunting to get on the ladder, she hadn’t said a single word. And, at the moment, she didn’t appear to be in any hurry to climb down, either. Maybe she was just taking a moment to collect herself now that she was safe. But seconds ticked by and she still wasn’t moving.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said, the word muffled by the sleeve of her hoodie as she was ducking her head between her arms, which were clutching the rungs above.
Her back was to him—well, mostly it was her butt above him—but he couldn’t see her face. “You thinking you might want to come down sometime soon?”
There was a pause, then, “I’m thinking that I need to get this damn kitten to get its claws out of me first.”
What? “What kitten?”
“The world’s stupidest one, who thought that climbing a big tree would be a great adventure, until it got stuck and then figured that climbing all the way out to the end of the limb would be a better bet than just climbing down the damn tree.”
“Ah,” he said, suddenly fighting a smile. “That kitten.”
“Exactly. It’s inside the front of my sweatshirt. Trying to climb me. I just need to—” She shifted a little, and the ladder wobbled, which made Brett jump back into action and brace it again, but that didn’t keep his smile from growing when a rather superlative string of swear words erupted from his heretofore-thought-of-as-elegant innkeeper.
“Maybe your best bet is just to get you both down on the terra firma and then get untangled before either of you does more damage.”
“Oh, I’m going to do some damage all right,” he heard her mutter over his head, as she slowly began to descend, one careful rung at a time. And which he didn’t believe for a second. People who dragged massive ladders out from God-knows-where in order to climb into a centuries-old oak tree to save a terrified kitten were doubtfully the abusive types.
As soon as she was on the ground, he let go of the ladder and took her arms, turning her to face him. “Here, let me get him.”
“Her,” she grunted, “which, I am well aware makes two stupid females stuck in a tree. Just let me pry this one claw out of my—ouch! Dammit, cat!”
Brett carefully unzipped the hoodie to find the most innocent looking, teeniest of tiny baby kittens…presently doing actual bloody damage to the front of its rescuer’s torso.
“Damn,” he muttered as he tried to pry the claws out of both fabric and skin, which brought a few more swear words, but given the situation, her restraint, otherwise, was impressive.
As Kirby was clearly past the point, Brett softened his own voice and did his best to calm the still-terrified kitty and de-prong the thing from the front of Kirby’s body. But every time he got one claw out, the kitty would redouble its efforts elsewhere, as if it were past comprehending that letting go no longer meant a plunge to its death.
Finally Brett ripped his own T-shirt over his head and wrapped it around the kitten’s body, so that when it swiped its feet, it got tangled up in his T-shirt instead. It took a few more very painful maneuvers, but a minute later, he had the little hellion wrapped up.
He crooned nonsense to the fluffball, then winced and swore himself as she got a few of his fingers through the shirt. “Blood-thirsty little thing, aren’t you?” He started to squat down to let her go.
“No! She’ll just go right back up the tree.”
Brett stood but tried to keep the now-squalling, squirming ball of kitten and T-shirt away from his body. “What did you have in mind then? Kitten soup?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
She turned toward the back door, which he saw now led to a screened-in porch outside and what looked like the kitchen beyond the door leading inside the house.
“Let’s take her inside,” she said, “see if we can get her calmed down, then I’ll call Pete to come get her.”
“Would Pete be the owner? Maybe he should have been the one climbing the tree,” Brett said as he followed her up onto the porch, still holding the kitten bundle aloft.
“He’s with animal control. Actually, he is animal control.
Only usually he deals with wild animals who get themselves in trouble. I think this one qualifies. These scratches sting like—”
Brett paused at the bottom of the porch steps.
“What?” she asked, turning back when she realized he wasn’t behind her.
“You almost killed yourself getting her down and you’re giving her to the pound?” He thought it was funny how he’d thought her gray eyes so soft before. Storm clouds were soft compared to the color of her eyes at the moment.
“You want to keep her? You’re wel
come to. But there’s a surcharge for pets.”
He grinned at that. “Okay. I’ll pay for room and board. And any damages,” he added as the storm clouds darkened.
She looked like he’d suddenly sprouted two heads. “You’re really going to keep her?”
“Not permanently, but I’m thinking we might be able to do a better job finding her a home than the dog catcher. Maybe find out where she strayed from in the first place. Maybe somebody’s missing her already.”
Storm clouds parted. Momentarily, anyway. “Fine,” she said at length. “You’re responsible, then. I’m going in to clean up.”
She tromped on into the house, apparently no longer concerned about him or the kitten. So why he was standing on the back stoop, grinning like an idiot—an idiot who’d never owned so much as a pet fish and had just apparently adopted a feral cat in the making—he had no idea. Maybe he was more road weary than he thought. Had to be it.
“Come on, Claw,” he said to the still-squalling bundle. “Let’s see if you stay this ornery in the face of some food and water. Maybe we’ll feed both of us. Then figure out what our next step is.”
He let the screen door slap shut behind him, still careful to keep the wriggling ball of cotton well away from his body. And thought maybe it was fitting, in a way. They were both outcasts, after all. Stuck in a limbo not entirely of their own choosing.
He stepped into the kitchen and discovered Kirby at the sink, her hoodie gone and her long-sleeve shirt hiked up as she carefully dabbed at the bloody welts on her abdomen.
He winced at the damage done to such tender, pale skin…but at the same time found himself thinking that if they had to be stuck, perhaps both he and the cat could have done far worse.
Chapter 3
The instant Kirby caught sight of Brett from the corner of her eye, entering the kitchen, she clumsily shut off the water with one hand and tugged her shirt back down with the other, wincing slightly as the cotton fabric rubbed over her raw, scratched flesh.
“Flesh” being the key word flashing through her head. And the fact that Brett Hennessey was sporting quite a lot of it at the moment. Not, perhaps, as much as the eyeful she’d gotten when she’d looked up at his bedroom window. Holy crap. She’d be picturing all that masculine perfection in her dreams—waking and sleeping—for weeks. Who was she kidding? Months. Possibly longer. It wasn’t likely anything else would come along to top it anytime soon. It was a miracle she hadn’t dropped like a stone from the tree the instant she laid eyes on him. So…so much of him.
She averted her gaze and gathered up the clutter of first aid supplies she’d pulled out of the little kit she kept under the sink for kitchen emergencies. It was silly to feel so self-conscious. After all, he was exposing a lot more than she’d been, and she seriously doubted he’d be as moved by the sight of her pale, scratched-up stomach as she’d been by his oh-so-perfectly-golden skin. So, so much skin…
“I—uh, I have some milk. In the fridge. For the cat. They drink milk, right?”
“I haven’t any idea.” He was just standing there, half naked. In her kitchen. The very same kitchen she’d fallen in love with for its roomy interior, high ceilings, and huge bay windows. Sunny, bright, and spacious. Suddenly it felt tiny, airless, and crowded. Very crowded. In fact, the only way to make a graceful exit was past his very big, very mostly naked body. At least she couldn’t seem to look anywhere but at the naked part. And given she’d seen the parts that were currently covered by his jeans, it was just as dangerous to look there. So, she simply wouldn’t look at him at all.
She shoved the first aid kit under the sink and swung around to the cupboards over the opposite counter. “I have bowls in here.” She put one on the counter and then dragged the antique bread keeper over and rolled up the top. “Bread in here.” She scooted over to the pantry. “I think I have tuna.”
Kirby knew she was babbling. Realized she was acting like an idiot teenager who was stumbling over her words in the face of the school stud. Unfortunately, acknowledging the ridiculousness of it didn’t seem to make it stop.
After assembling her cluster of kitten-feeding amenities, she floundered for a moment. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
When he didn’t reply right away, she was finally forced to turn and look at him. Still packed a punch. Jeans, broad, beautifully muscled shoulders, a six-pack that wouldn’t quit…and green eyes. Seriously? Didn’t seem fair, really. All that and killer eyes, too? Which were twinkling a little at the moment, despite the wriggling ball of black T-shirt dangling from his fist. So, he thought this was funny. That she was funny. Or, at least, pathetically amusing.
Also fair. Because she was certainly behaving pathetically at the moment.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I think I’ll just grab a few things and take them upstairs. I’m not thinking it would be a good idea to let my, uh, roommate here, out, until we’re behind closed doors.”
Heaven help her, that was the last image she really needed at that moment. Behind closed doors with Brett Hennessey. Oh, yes indeedy, that visual would be guaranteed a starring role in those dreams she’d be having, no doubt. “Here, let me,” she said, more to have something to do than because she’d really thought it through.
That came later, after she was trudging up the stairs behind him and the very annoyed kitten bundle, admiring yet another fine view and deciding that she really, truly, had to reconsider trying to develop some kind of social life here in Pennydash, and not just with the Friday-night ladies auxiliary bingo league.
Of course, any fantasy she might have harbored about possibly developing a nice, safe, temporary dalliance with one of the resort ski instructors, or emergency patrol guys, was, at the very least, going to have to wait a year, as most of them had either been let go or quit and headed west or overseas to find steady work where there was actually snow on the ground. Any other time, she’d have been okay with that. Or would have talked herself into being okay with it. After all, what were her alternatives, really? At the moment, however, staring at Brett’s insanely perfect ass, she was thinking a year sounded like an impossible eternity. But cheered herself by acknowledging that possible alternatives could, potentially, turn up at any time. Just as he had.
Not that he qualified as such. He, her much younger, incredibly hot guest. But he had at least opened her up to the idea that something could happen. With someone else. At some point. Possibly.
She should thank him for that.
At the moment she was sort of caught up staring at the back of his 501’s and wondering how that bit looked uncovered, as she’d pretty much seen everything else. Probably just as good. Or better, she thought with a long, mental sigh.
Naturally, this was when he topped the stairs at his third-floor landing and turned back, so that she was now staring directly at a part of his body she had, actually, seen unclothed, and immediately pictured again. She gulped, and might have wobbled back and fallen down all three flights of stairs, thereby ruining all of his best efforts at saving her from herself after all.
But he snagged her elbow as her tray full of goodies wobbled, and eased her up onto the landing next to him. He opened his door with his free hand, bumped it open wider with his hip, and motioned her inside with a tip of his head. “Trying to keep this one from being anywhere close,” he said, still juggling the kitty bundle, which said kitty was trying to climb out of, as one claws-extended paw made it out of one of the gaps at the top where he was holding the T-shirt bundle mostly closed. “You can just set it on the bed. Or the dresser. Wherever.”
She arranged the items on his dresser top, trying not to look at the mussed-up duvet that covered the sea of bed. The sea of bed that made his airy, sunshiny room feel suddenly just as small as her airy and sunshiny kitchen had a few moments ago. Yeah, she definitely needed a life. “Okay, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.” The kitten chose that moment to give a particularly plaintive howl. “Good luck with that,” she added, with a dub
ious glance at the kitten.
“We’ll be fine,” he said, but the quick glance he gave the still-squirmy bundle wasn’t quite as convincing.
Which, somehow, was what restored her confidence. Big man leveled by a little kitten. Yeah, it might be small of her, but it helped her scrape at least a little of her self-esteem up off the floor.
“If you need anything else—”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Okay.” She tried to find her calm, easygoing, polite innkeeper smile, but somehow they seemed a bit past that now. “I’ll be downstairs.”
He gave her a little salute and perched on the side of the bed. The big, fluffy, perfect-for-wild-sex sleigh bed.
“Right,” she added, apropos of nothing, then turned and all but fled the room. Before he could read on her face what was going through her head. She’d been humiliated enough for one day.
Once outside on the landing, the bedroom door safely shut between them, she’d had every intention of retreating to the main floor, heading to her rooms and doing a better job of attending her wounds. Somehow, instead she found herself hovering outside the closed door. His closed door. And listening. She told herself she was simply being a good hostess and making sure her guest didn’t get attacked by the ten ounces of terror wrapped up in that T-shirt. She told herself that. It was the making herself believe part that was a bit trickier.
There was a sudden spate of yowling, followed by the deep, soft rumblings of his voice that had her craning her neck, trying to hear what he was saying. Not that it mattered; he was obviously trying to calm the terrified kitten. She just…wanted to hear the words. She shifted closer, but it was all a softly spoken murmur. All the same, it did interesting things to her insides, listening to him. She had no idea how it was working on the kitten, although the yowling seemed to have stopped, but it would certainly have made her feel all warm and snuggly and content. Along with a few other things she doubted her four-legged guest would understand.
Here Comes Trouble Page 3