by Lia Riley
“Cover me,” Breezy blurted, hoisting the jacket at her waist. “I have to go.”
“What? Where?” Daisy’s blond bob swung as she jerked back her head.
“I have a . . . uh . . . to make an urgent call.” Breezy scuttled backward, one hand clutching her exposed rump. The back exit led to the stairwell, one that would take her to the first floor. From there she could cut across the nonfiction section to the handicap bathroom and change. That toilet was rarely used so it was a safe place to release the tears building—hot and terrible—behind her twitching lids.
“You can’t leave, I don’t care if the pope is on the phone.” Daisy flashed an incredulous look. “What’s gotten into you? Jed West is here. Your Jed West.”
In addition to the Westy mug, Breezy had a wall calendar of him hanging behind her desk, a gift from last year’s office secret Santa. The library volunteers kept her supplied with a steady stream of fangirl-related gifs, memes and interview clips.
“Listen to me.” Her self-control rapidly approached a breaking point. “I’m out of commission. You have to hold down the fort. Make sure these families don’t leave without signing up for the summer reading challenge. Oh, and please thank my sister. She is amazing. A goddess.”
Daisy stuck her hands on her hips, but before she could rattle off more questions Breezy barreled through the exit and into the stairwell. By the time she hit the main floor, she was panting.
“Breezy? Breezy, honey, what happened?” A concerned female voice piped from the reference desk. She didn’t turn to see which of the senior volunteers asked the question. A couple of men waved from the public access computers as she blew past like a human tornado. At the last moment, she veered out the main exit.
The sliding doors opened and she burst into the parking lot, slamming a hand shield over her eyes to peer through the downpour.
Screw the bathroom. Better to get the hell out of Dodge and fast.
The trouble was that her purse was locked in her bottom desk drawer. Ah, wait. She sighed in relief. A spare key was hidden behind the bumper. Squatting, she fished it out as the costume’s fabric ripped more. Her hamstrings were now exposed too, but whatever, the worst of damage was done. Opening the door to her yellow Volkswagen Beetle, she climbed into the driver’s seat.
Rain hammered the roof like a furious punctuation to the whole sorry affair. “Oh my God,” she muttered between ragged breaths. But that didn’t come close to releasing the hot emotion building inside her, squeezing each rib like a vise.
“Fuck!” She punched the steering wheel like a boxer’s speed ball. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck Fuckolahhhhhhhh . . . ouch!” Her knuckles exploded in pain as the horn gave way with a wheezily annoyed toot.
Shoving the key in the ignition, she eased out of the parking lot, heading toward home.
Home. Her home. The ink hadn’t even dried on her mortgage, purchased last month as an act of independence, a sign that she could make it on her own without the support of a crappy fiancé.
Neighborhoods passed by in a blur, same with the pedestrians taking shelter under umbrellas. With her foot pressed to the accelerator, it was tempting to steer out of the city. Drive straight out of Denver, through the foothills and into the Rockies masked behind the roiling clouds. Surely a nice log cabin waited in the woods. An out-of-the-way place where she could whittle a staff from a thick branch and use it to scare away trespassers.
Except that plan would never work. She loved her bed. It was the one place that accepted her just the way she was, day or night, rain or shine. A safe refuge to binge on Parks and Recreation while wallowing in self-pity and Pepperidge Farm cookie crumbs.
She turned onto her street.
God Saw You Do That read this week’s sign out in front of Trinity Church. The pastor changed the marquee every Wednesday.
“Big deal,” she snarled, gripping the wheel. “So did Jed West.” A conga line of horrific memories paraded through her head. Namely Westy getting an eyeful of her fox-printed thong and extra fifteen pounds.
It wasn’t until she slammed into the garage and flung open the driver’s side door that she registered what was still tied around her waist. She fingered the Gore-Tex with a groan.
Talk about taking a shitty situation and drizzling a dollop of sucks-to-be-you over the top. It wasn’t enough to flash Jed her wobbly bits, she had to go and steal his rain jacket too. And if on the million—no, scratch that, billion to one—chance that the sexy look he’d given her up on the podium wasn’t a figure of her imagination, well she’d blown it now.
Face meet palm.
Chapter Four
“Houston, we have a problem.” Neve poked Jed in the ribs with a remarkably pointy elbow. “My sister stole your jacket.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I loaned it to her.” Jed finished signing his last autograph and waved goodbye to the curly haired kid and his dad, buoyed by the relief that his vision hadn’t gone awry since leaving Zachary’s. No nagging headache. No dizziness. Maybe the blurriness was nothing but a blip. “I’ll swing by her desk and grab it on the way out.”
He wouldn’t mind getting one last peek at the voluptuous librarian with the classic pinup features. Those traffic-stopping curves had been replaying in the back of his mind for the past half hour. As an unabashed ass man, he couldn’t help but notice that Breezy Angel sported a damn near perfect apple butt. He’d almost gotten wood from the tear in her suit, except the peep show had been unintended and the shame in her eyes overrode his lust.
“Yeah, about that. No. You won’t.” Neve appeared irritated. “She drove home. I just got her text.”
“She’s gone?” He patted his sweats. Shit. No pockets. No wallet. His plan was to spend the afternoon lifting at the gym, not hanging at a library. When he’d parked, he’d pulled it out from his gym bag and stuck it inside his jacket pocket. Now it had gone off to a stranger’s house who lived who the hell knows where.
“You need to understand. My sister, she was . . .” Neve turned up her palms, dismay radiating from every feature. “Flustered.”
Not the word he’d have gone with but luscious sure as hell wouldn’t fly in the current situation. “I need her address.” At least he’d secured his Land Rover key into the clip in his waistband, an old habit from when he’d trail run in the redwoods north of San Francisco Bay.
Neve stiffened at his request, but her shoulders relaxed after his explanation about how it would be easier to retrieve the jacket and wallet himself. “It’s only a couple of minutes out of my way.” He talked fast, as if verbal speed could mask his edginess. A slight frown creased his brow. He wasn’t the type to get the fucking jitters. His even-keeled temperament was a source of pride. Mental toughness wasn’t just for the rink, but the bedrock upon which he built the foundation of his life.
But fifteen minutes later, as he pulled his Land Rover up in front of the address he’d plugged into the GPS, his pulse accelerated to fifth gear.
“You have arrived at your destination,” the navigation voice intoned.
He peered through his rain-drenched windshield. Breezy Angel’s house barely qualified as a cottage, with white shutters and shingles painted a robin’s egg blue. Despite the shitty weather, the tiny place radiated a cheerful glow. Buttery light poured from the two front windows that were framed by cheerful sunflowers.
After setting the handbrake, he caught sight of his goofy half smile in the rearview mirror. He looked like a goddamn giddy teenager going to prom or some shit. Time to slow his roll. All he was here to do was grab his coat and go.
“Grab and go,” he repeated, slamming the door. “Grab and go.”
He dashed from the car to the front porch, but received no answer to his knock. Bluesy music played inside, overlaid by the sounds of muffled swearing. Someone was home at least. He knocked again, using more force. A creak of footsteps drew near followed by the unsettling sense of being scrutinized through the peep hole. He waved.
More muffled sweari
ng. He chewed at the corner of his top lip, eyebrows raised. This sweet-faced children’s librarian knew curses that could shame a locker room of disgruntled hockey players.
“Uh, hello?” He leaned closer. “Breezy? Everything okay?”
Two summers ago, he’d taken a trip to South Africa, went cage-diving with great whites. The tour operator had chummed the water and the sea turned red with bloody fish guts. It hadn’t taken long for the great beasts to emerge from the deep gloom and attack the cage in a mindless frenzy. The sounds emitting from inside the cottage were almost as wild. Furniture getting dragged. A distant door slammed again and again.
What the hell was she doing in there, hiding bodies?
After a long minute, he raised his hand to knock for a third time, but this time the door swung open as if on cue. His throat throbbed like he’d been cross-checked in the trachea.
No sign of the destroyed costume. Instead the librarian had replaced her ruined superhero suit with a tight T-shirt that read I Still Believe in 398.2, a cardigan and black skull and crossbones leggings that accentuated her heart-pounding waist-to-hip ratio. All that thick, glossy hair was tied up with a red polka-dot scarf like that vintage World War II mascot. Don’t forget the thick black-framed glasses. The whole effect was classic housewife meets naughty nerd, and it worked like a fucking treat.
Blood rerouted to his cock. Oh yeah, he liked this.
He liked it a lot.
“You.” The tip of her pink tongue darted out, flicking across the small indentation in her top lip. “You’re here.”
“Yeah.” He glanced down to his rain-splattered sneakers and back to her stunned face. “Looks like I am.”
A long silence ensued. As he stood there, an unexpected feeling of rightness settled over him as if standing on Breezy Angel’s porch wasn’t the culmination of a series of unfortunate events, but part of a grand and mysterious plan.
He chuckled, but the sound was hollow in his ears—his dumb ass better wise up real fast. He wasn’t some regular Joe Blow swinging by to grab a missing jacket from a pretty girl. He was Jed West, Hellions captain.
Wasn’t that all people ever saw?
The name.
The fame.
Not that celebrity went to his head all that much—a thousand fans cheering could go to a thousand fans booing in a single play. On shitty nights, that’s exactly what happened.
But he didn’t need to dash off invitations to a pity party. After all, he made a great living playing an even greater game. The lack of privacy, the critics, the curious fans and even the recent self-chosen celibacy went part and parcel with the territory. If he wanted to play, he had to pay the piper somewhere.
He jerked his head toward where the rain was doing its level best to erode the sidewalk. “I loaned you my Gore-Tex and—”
“Sorry, yes. Oh God. You’re right. I’m sorry.” She stared, horrified. “What an idiot. Me, I mean. I’m the idiot. Not you. You are definitely not an idiot.”
Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, his lips slowly spreading into another wide smile. She was funny.
He liked it.
He liked her.
“I normally keep my wallet in my back pocket but . . .” He made a vague gesture toward his sweatpants-clad ass, privately cursing his own awkwardness. “No pockets,” he concluded lamely.
“Of course. And come in, please. It’s so wet.” Her brows wrinkled in panic. “I’m totally making you stand there. Sorry. Sorry.”
Her gorgeous round, silver-blue eyes were nearly at his level. Damn she was tall. “You know something? You apologize a lot,” he observed wryly.
“Bad habit. Sorry.” She smashed her lips, wincing. “See? I finally quit biting my nails, but making random apologies? Forget about it. I’ll be on my deathbed asking for forgiveness from the nurses.”
She backed away and he stepped over the threshold. The yellow-walled interior smelled like fresh paint. “Nice place.” And it was. Warm and cozy. A lot like its owner.
“I thought so too, until I got home today.” She plucked his jacket from the back of her love seat. “Now it’s being a jerk. My stupid roof has sprung a leak.”
The living room was lined with cardboard boxes, as if she’d recently moved in. Framed museum posters were stacked in the corner. The only things set up in here were her four bookshelves. “Can I be of any help?”
“How?” Her lips parted in apparent surprise. “You do home repairs?”
He shrugged, a knot loosening the too-tight muscles between his shoulders. “Once upon a time I worked summers as a handyman for a Sunnyvale contractor, an old football buddy of my brother’s. Let’s see the problem.”
“Um . . . well.” She fiddled with a string dangling off the wrist of her cardigan, and broke it with a sharp twist. “It’s in my bedroom.”
The silence lasted several awkward beats before a deep-set dimple made an appearance in her left cheek. He swallowed back an impulse to lick it. Was she fucking with him?
She must have noticed his hesitation because she made the sign of the cross over her heart. “Promise this isn’t a set up for a cheesy seventies porno. You might want to stick on that raincoat though. Fair warning.”
While he laughed, her gaze darted from his head to his toes, a quick appraisal, but an appraisal nevertheless. He didn’t quite know how to read her. Her demeanor wasn’t forwardly flirtatious, but that pink in her cheeks hinted that she didn’t mind what she saw.
And the feeling was mutual, more than mutual if the sudden snugness in his boxer briefs was any indication.
He tried and failed not to gawk at her ass as she walked ahead of him down a narrow hallway. It had been a long time since he’d held a soft woman.
When Breezy turned, they stood almost chest to chest, and her eyes. Fucking fuck. Those eyes were something else.
“Um.” She cleared her throat. “Here we are.”
Her bedroom.
He hoped his gaze stayed neutral, vaguely helpful, rather than reveal the dirty fantasies that swirled through his brain like an X-rated kaleidoscope.
Christ. His boxers were fitting snugger still, if he kept going like this he’d be tenting his sweats. He flexed his legs and wildly tried to focus on something—anything—that wasn’t Breezy on her knees, working that lush mouth over his cock, or having those two perfect-ten tits bouncing in his hands as she rode him reverse cowgirl.
Look, he wasn’t a pervert, but fuck it, he was a man . . . and a creative lover in the right moment.
Which this sure as hell wasn’t.
Paper cut to the eyeball. No, wait paper cuts to the dick. Yeah, a legal document right on the tip.
That ball-shrinking thought worked its necessary magic.
Without another word, she opened the door and the trouble was immediately obvious. A wet ring of plaster formed in the ceiling as a steady drizzle drip, drip, dripped into a metal mixing bowl placed in the center of an antique brass bed.
“Total disaster, right?” Worry etched her words. “I closed on this place two weeks ago, and all my savings are sunk into the down payment. The home inspector made it sound like the roof had another five years of life. If it needs replacing then I can’t even afford tears.”
He pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves. Fantasies would have to wait. The damage wasn’t good, but there was no way of knowing what the problem’s extent was until he examined the source of the leak. “I’m going to need to access the attic. Where’s your crawl space?”
“There’s a trap door to the ceiling in the closet.” Small lines bracketed her pressed mouth. “I haven’t braved exploring up there yet, on account of spiders and—”
“Don’t worry. I’m on it.” He dropped his coat onto the foot of the bed and strode toward her bedroom’s closet.
“No! Stop.” She dive-bombed in front of the door, splaying out her arms as if to ward him off. “Not there. In the hallway!”
He froze, studying her face for a long second. Rain drum
med hard on the roof, the noise growing in intensity. What was she hiding? Piles of dirty laundry? Her bras and underwear?
Her body jolted as if she was trying to suppress a shiver. The notion bored into his stomach, hot and hungry. Was she feeling it too, the same tightening in the chest as if robbed of air, this attraction, like a tether, pulling them together?
He glanced down, fighting to get a grip. After all, what culled the boys from the men was self-control. “I need a bucket, a flashlight, caulking and a tarp.”
She toyed with one of her earrings, absorbing his request. The wind picked up, branches from the cherry tree outside her window scratching at the glass. “My stepdad set up a utility area in the garage. A little ambitious of him when I can’t tell apart a Phillips and flathead screwdriver . . .” She broke off, as the water dripping from the ceiling gushed into an indoor waterfall.
She groaned, as chunks of plaster fell onto her bed. “I’m so freaking screwed.”
Her wide gaze was panicked, shit, those might even be tears. “No.” Before he could weigh the consequences of his action, he took hold of her upper arms, holding tight. “You’re going to be okay, understand?” It wasn’t until he spoke that he realized how fucking intense he sounded, like this was the finale in a war movie, and he was asking her to do battle by his side.
But she didn’t laugh. Hell, she didn’t even crack a smile as he released her, taking two steps back. Just gave a dazed nod, idly massaging the spot near her shoulder where his palm had touched.
“Back in a second,” he muttered, heading to her garage to rummage for the necessary tools. As he poked around the workbench, he caught himself whistling under his breath. Whistling “Eye of the Tiger” to be exact.