Nana tsked tsked, then made shooing motions at Sophie. “Take a shower, young lady. Trent, you need one, too. Go on, now, both of you!”
“Virginia! Are you suggesting I shower with this woman?”
“Trent, you devil!” Nana slapped her thigh and hooted.
Sophie whirled around, her cheeks heated and flushed.
Trent’s mouth quirked up at the corners, amusement dancing in his brown eyes. He raised his brows. “If it means keeping my job, I’ll suffer through it,” he said sadly.
Sophie fumed at the pitiful look he sent her. It was laced with just enough lasciviousness to make her want to poke out his eyes. Their laughter sent her scurrying to the back of the house. She trudged up the three steps and opened the screen door. She plopped down on the floor of the enclosed porch and began to take off her dirty socks and shoes. She managed to get her left foot free, but the right shoe had a lace full of knots.
Something about Trent bothered her. He was too handsome, she decided. And he had an irritating dimple near the right corner of his mouth.
Stop thinking about his mouth.
The door screeched, and Sophie looked up. Trent entered, his muscled torso gleaming with sweat and dirt, looking like one of those body spray commercial models. And she knew up close and personal-like how really good he smelled without any help from some aerosolized cologne. She tore her gaze from the view and concentrated on the knot in the tennis shoe strings.
“Need help?”
The low sound of his voice skimmed up over her and ignited a spark in her belly. Startled at her strong reaction, Sophie snapped, “No thanks.”
He tilted his head. “I’m sorry I saw your panties.”
“You saw my—oh, crap,” she said, gripping her slimy shoe strings, “I don’t want to discuss my underwear.”
“Red’s my favorite color.”
Sophie pretended not to hear him.
“I saw the scar on your back, too.”
Sophie stilled. She didn’t like talking about the scar with anyone—not even Nana. She blew out a breath. “I’d rather talk about my amazing red panties.”
“I recognize that kind of wound,” he said gently. “Where did the Alberich find you?”
“Who says they did?”
“Your scar.”
Fuck this. She used werewolf strength to shred the stubborn lace and whipped off her shoe and sock. She dumped them into a pile and stood up. “Don’t plan on sticking around,” she said. “We don’t need your help.”
Sophie rotated on her heel, her bare feet prickled by the uneven floor, and headed for the door that led into the house—and away from Trent.
“Sophie.”
The apology in his voice stalled her. Her hand clenched the old metal handle as she looked over her shoulder. “What?”
“I have one, too.” He turned around, and she saw the all too familiar mark left by an Alberich’s weapon—a long thick scar flared at both ends.
She’d never met anyone else who’d survived an Alberich attack. Mostly because the creatures were thought to be extinct and no longer a threat to werewolves. But one had found her in the Oregon forest. The encounter had changed her life, and put Broken Heart on high alert. For Trent to have the same scar meant he had fought them more than century ago.
Trent turned to face her, his gaze sympathetic. “We’re lucky.”
“You have a weird concept of ‘lucky.’” Tears threatening, Sophie hurried into the house—trying to run from the surfacing emotions, and the past that never seemed far enough behind.
Chapter Two
THE NEXT DAY at noon, Sophie cornered Nana in the kitchen. Leaning against the blue-tiled counter, she watched her grandmother stir the sizzling contents in the wok. She wore a blue shirt with long sleeves, a color that looked great against her pale skin, and pair of dark slacks. The older woman had short, permed silvery-gray hair and the darkest-brown eyes Sophie had ever encountered. Not like her own amber-brown or the soft brown of Trent’s eyes.
Speaking of... “Are you gonna stick with the story that Trent is a handyman?” she asked.
“He’s handy, and he’s a man. So, yes,” responded Nana. “I’m sticking with my story.”
“Right. And he just happens to be a survivor of an Alberich attack.”
“He is? Looks like you two have something in common. Maybe you can compare notes.”
“Nana.” She put her hand on her grandmother’s thin arm, stopping her from stirring the cooking veggies. “I’m fine.”
Nana put the spatula on the spoon rest. She turned and took Sophie’s hands. “You’re not fine. You still have nightmares. You’re jumpy and paranoid. You avoid contact with others. And you’re in pain, physical and emotional.”
She couldn’t deny her grandmother’s words. Night after night, the horrid memories morphed into worse dreams. Nana would wake her and then console her. Sometimes, Nana settled down next to Sophie and softly sang until she fell asleep. It shamed her to know that her fear had turned her into the grieving child she’d once been. After Sophie’s parents had died, Nana had taken in her emotionally wounded five-year-old grandchild and then loved her so unconditionally that Sophie had finally healed. She became a herbalist like her Nana. Her trip to Oregon had been to collect Oregon grape and other plants to create tinctures, teas, and topical ointments for her and Nana’s online herbal store.
That awful, fateful night, she’d camped deep in the woods, enjoying nature from both wolf and woman perspectives.
Then the Alberich found her.
And nearly killed her.
Crafted from pure silver and coated with wolfsbane, the Alberich weapon had been designed to cause the most damage and suffering possible before death. She’d survived, and mostly healed, but the scar on her back would never go away. As for the emotional trauma, she’d tried counseling. Talking about the attack didn’t help. Each retelling of the event only made her feel more vulnerable, weak and angry.
Nana placed a soft kiss on Sophie’s forehead, and then returned to cooking.
Sophie leaned a hip against the counter and watched her grandmother stir green peppers with slices of summer squash, cubes of chicken, and a healthy dose of soy sauce. Nana tossed in mushrooms and onions.
“Since when do we own a wok?” asked Sophie. Realization dawned. “You’ve been watching the shopping network again, haven’t you?”
“It’s that damned Hubert Larson. He could sell sunglasses to a blind man.”
“You are so in love with him,” teased Sophie. “Is it his shellacked hair? Or maybe the way he wears his trousers too high?”
“Don’t make fun of my TV boyfriend.” Nana shooed her away. “Why don’t you see if Trent has arrived with his things? Ask if he’s hungry. I’m making plenty.”
“He’s moving into the garage apartment today?”
“Why not?”
Sophie opened her mouth to respond, but her excellent hearing picked up the sound of car tires crunching on the gravel drive. Trent. The werewolf made her feel antsy...nervous...vulnerable. Okay, if she were a teensy bit honest with herself, she’d admit her unease had to do with the way her pulse jumped when she thought about him. And he’d survived the Alberich, too. She wanted to ask him about his encounter, but that meant she had to open up about her own experience and trauma, and she wasn’t going to do that.
The doorbell rang.
Sophie left the kitchen, taking reluctant steps toward the front door.
The doorbell rang again.
Her heart tripped over itself.
To catch the warm spring breeze, the front door had been propped open. Trent waited on the other side of the screen door, a duffel bag in his right hand. Wow. He looked good. The man was gorgeous enough to have her licking her chops.
“Hello,” he greeted as she pushed the door open. He stepped inside, his chest brushing against hers as he angled through sideways. Sensations fluttered through her. Sophie drew a deep breath, and she saw Trent’s no
strils flare. Great. She was probably putting out all kinds of sex pheromones. She might as well wear a sign that said, “Do me.”
“How’s it hanging?” he asked.
“Ha. Ha.” Sophie let go of the metal handle, and the door banged shut behind Trent. She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.
His half-smile slid into a grin. He held up his bag. “Where to?”
“Follow me.” Sophie led him down the hallway and into the kitchen. Nana had disappeared, and the contents of the wok were now in a green bowl shaped like a fish.
“That smells...interesting,” said Trent.
“Nana is an experimental cook. Considered yourself warned.”
They entered the screened porch, and Sophie opened the back door, jumping over the three concrete steps. She heard Trent’s sneakers squeaking through the dewy grass as she led him across the yard.
Sophie and Trent reached the detached garage and climbed the rickety wood staircase attached to the outside. The door protested its opening with a loud screech. Sophie went inside, flipping on the light switch next to the door.
When had Nana cleaned up the place? The simple furnishings sparkled and glimmered. A bed, dresser, and desk made up the front area. In back was a small utilitarian kitchen. Sophie pointed to another door. “That’s the bathroom. Your closet is over there.”
Trent placed the bag on the bed and turned to face her. He crossed his arms, and the muscles bunched nicely. The man was built. Whew. His knowing smile made her squirmy, so she turned and checked the dresser for dust. He went to the bed and unzipped the duffel bag. She watched him take out folded T-shirts and jeans. A pair of high tops. A leather-bound journal. Already familiar—too familiar—with his front, Sophie felt compelled to check out his backside one more time. After all, she wanted to have a balanced view. It was only fair.
His brownish hair, slightly long, looked silky, soft. The muscles in his back moved under his tight white shirt. Sophie’s gaze dropped lower. His jeans fit perfectly around his rear end and the material molded to his muscular thighs.
He straightened swiftly and looked at her. Heat rose in her face when his lips curved upward. His expression said, Like what you see? There’s more. She swallowed her embarrassment, feeling like she’d been caught peeping at him naked through a window. She hugged herself and stepped backward.
“Why do I make you nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“Hmm. You don’t trust your instincts.” He nodded, his gaze empathetic. “I felt that way, too. Werewolves rely heavily on their senses. We don’t expect them to fail us.”
She wanted badly to ask about what happened to him, and how he recovered, but the words wouldn’t form. No one knew the whole truth about her experience. In a strange way, she felt her story, her pain, belonged to her. She owed no one an explanation, damn it.
“Do you need anything else?” she asked politely. “If I know Nana, she made sure you have towels and soap, dishes, and dry goods.”
“That’s great. Thanks. I’m looking forward to helping out.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about me and not about the house?”
“I don’t know, Sophie.” He stepped just within her space, close enough to touch, and Sophie felt her stomach drop to her toes. All the air in the room seemed to disappear. She felt as if she stood inside a vacuum, her shallow breathing the only sound, Trent’s blue mesmerizing eyes the only sight. “Do you want my help?”
His question broke the spell between them, almost with an audible snap.
Relief shuddered through her as she collected her wits. She inhaled deeply. “No,” she said to him. “I don’t want you around at all.”
She noticed Trent’s expression. His eyes held too much sympathy. Here was a werewolf who’d survived the same terrible thing she had, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—reach out.
She was a stubborn fool.
Trent leaned closer, and she caught another whiff of his woodsy aroma, a pure masculine scent. He had a strong jawline, high cheekbones, straight nose, and that dimple. The damn dimple. Her wolf form liked him, too.
Down, girl. We are so not going there.
“Don’t you think it’s time to move forward?”
Her gaze jerked from his chin to his eyes. “Forward?”
“With your life.”
She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with a stranger. What had Nana been thinking when she’d foisted this babysitter on her? She saw right through that whole handyman bullshit.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She paused her seething for a moment to consider him. Her gaze landed on his lips. Strong, firm, designed for kissing the daylights out of someone. She stifled a sigh. He probably had all kinds of kissing techniques designed to curl a werewolf’s toes. But kissing Trent would be like sampling a gourmet truffle. It would lead to her devouring the whole box. She knew it would be fulfilling and decadent. Then she’d feel sick and guilty for indulging herself and swear off the luscious candy...all the while craving more.
Yep. Trent was a Godiva chocolate...and she was on a diet.
“My life is none of your business,” she said flatly and with sharp regret at ending any possibility of trying out Trent’s lips. She tried to squelch all thoughts and sensations, but her body refused to take orders and continued to react to Trent’s presence. Run with him whispered her wolf. Howl with him.
“I understand,” he said, backing away with hands held up in surrender. “Just know that I’m here if you want to talk.”
“You’re at the top of my list right behind Oprah and Dr. Phil.” She shook her head when her sarcasm garnered her a cute and cheeky smile from Trent. She waved a hand at him. “Never mind. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes. Be sure to wash up. Nana’s been known to check under fingernails.”
“Noted,” he said.
“See you downstairs, then.” Sophie left as fast as her shaking legs could take her. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was nearly in a full-blown panic attack. She took several deep breaths and willed her heart to slow its rapid pace.
“You’re okay,” she whispered to herself. “You’re okay.”
* * *
“WHAT ARE YOU doing?”
Sophie’s suspicious voice startled Trent. Crouched on the kitchen floor, he’d been examining the rickety drawer slides. As he jerked up, his head connected with the underside of the drawer. Muttering a curse, he withdrew from the cabinet and looked up.
Sophie stood less than a foot away, nibbling her lower lip. She had her pale blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, hardly any makeup, just a little gloss on her pert, pink lips. Not that she needed any. Her eyes were brown, like his, only a lighter shade, almost golden. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose that made him want to get close enough to count each one of them.
She wore pink shorts and a crop top. Her bare midriff was tan and lean. His gaze was drawn to the dimple of her belly button. Oh, man. He’d better not let himself think about anything below her belly button. Or anything above it.
Trent rose, went to the refrigerator, and removed a tray of ice cubes. He popped out one, put it in his mouth, and returned the tray to the fridge. He’d been under Sophie’s surveillance all afternoon. This was his third ice cube in an hour. He crunched down, grateful for the coolness sluicing his throat.
She glanced at the cabinets. “If you’re looking for her will, Nana keeps it in her bedroom closet. She’s not the type to tape envelopes of cash under the kitchen drawers, either.”
“Darn.” Trent snapped his fingers. “What about stocks or bonds? Gold coins?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re joking.”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “Relax, Sophie. I’m not going to filch the family silver. I’m just fixing the drawers. Remember,” he said, pointing at himself. “Handyman.”
Red crept into her cheeks. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
She looked down at her toes, painted a bright pink. “All the drawers stick. Some of the knobs are loose, too.”
“By the time I’m done, everything in the kitchen will be good as new.”
“Thanks. That’s great.” She looked away, taking a sudden interest in the stove. She was quiet, and he waited, sure that she wanted to connect with him.
Just open up a little, he thought, and I can take your pain.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”
Damn. She was stubborn. Trent watched the sway of her hips. The shorts molded her firm behind and showed off her long sleek legs. That blonde hair. Those amber eyes. That beautiful heart-shaped face with its slightly pointed chin. Man, he was in trouble. He groaned. He opened the freezer and took out another ice cube.
* * *
IN THE BASEMENT, Nana prepared herbs and flowers for drying, and Sophie hung them on the hemp rope strung across the room. The ingredients they used for salves, teas, and other ointments were in various stages of drying.
While Nana braided long spiky strands of rosemary, Sophie looked at her fragile, and all too human, grandmother. She wore a T-shirt and rolled-up jeans, penny loafers, and pink smock. Affection bubbled through her.
Nana looked up and grinned. “When’s the last time you got laid?”
The effervescent love for Nana fizzled. She got off the step ladder and put her hands on her hips. “What?”
“You heard me.” Nana tilted her head. “Maybe you should get your bell rung a time or two. That might be all you need to get some decent sleep.”
Sophie gaped at her grandmother.
The old woman laughed at her. “You need some pointers?” She threw up her sun-spotted hands. “Hey, don’t look so horrified. I was doing it long before you were born. I have this one trick that works every time. You grab his—”
Sophie put up her hand, palm out, in the universal sign for STOP. “I’m not taking sex advice from my grandmother.”
“Um…should I come back later?”
Lycan on the Edge: Broken Heart Book 13 Page 2