by Taryn Quinn
Okay, that wasn’t me yet. But I was on my way. I’d get there, and I’d be damned if I let anything hold me back. Not like my dad had. He’d gotten saddled with a kid and wife way too early, and he’d abandoned his dreams to stay home and pretend to be a doting dad.
He’d split before I turned eight, and I couldn’t even completely hold it against him. Some dudes weren’t meant for regular relationships. One woman forever sounded like a recipe for heartburn to me.
And this chick? If she ever let a guy in her pants, she probably had forever stenciled on her cooch.
“You have two hands, right?” I tossed back her hat and earmuffs, then grabbed my spatula. Better to have something in my hand that didn’t smell like whatever sorcery she’d slathered all over her skin. Fuck if it didn’t remind me of chocolate.
Who smelled like chocolate other than bakers?
“I surely do,” she muttered, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she sounded disappointed. But she swiftly disappeared down the hall, so fast that I wondered if she intended to head out the door and hike back to town.
Don’t want what’s between my pearly gates? Well, fuck you then! I’ll show you by dying in a snowbank before morning!
Though it definitely wasn’t a case of not wanting to take the express pass into her drive-through. Without that crazy hat and those stupid earmuffs, she was kind of hot. I’d even gotten a glimpse of her neck as she unwound the scarf of doom. She might even have a pair of breasts under all those layers.
Not that it mattered to me. She could be flat as a board and I’d keep to my plans.
Fire, beer, a night spent relaxing. In that order.
And no fucking soup.
“Put it in the microwave,” she called over her shoulder.
I stared at the pan. “For how long?”
“Look at the can.” She didn’t tack on dumbass but it was heavily implied.
“I can’t make grilled cheese in a microwave,” I yelled back.
“Yes, you can. Cheese sandwiches are great microwaved.”
I huffed under my breath. Soup and grilled cheese in a microwave. Whatever.
Most likely, she went to one of those fancy country club-type colleges and was home on her winter break. They probably had sleepovers in her dorm and jumped around in footie PJs while flinging popcorn at each other and chanting the school fight song.
Hmm, that was an oddly arousing image. Clearly I needed to get laid. Fast. And not by Little Red Riding Hood and her basket of bread.
Her ginormous boots clomped over the rough-hewn floorboards. Then I heard her gasp.
I dropped the spatula into the pan of cold gunk and rushed down the hall, stopping short at the carved out entrance to the living room. I’d gone for that exact look, angling the boards and beams to make it seem as if the room itself had been dug out of the forest. Every part of the cabin straddled the line between spartan and primitive. Including the large fireplace that Red was crouching in front of to warm her hands.
Yes, she’d finally removed her mittens. Praise Jesus.
“Go take a shower. You can borrow some clean clothes—”
“My clothes are clean. I changed right before I got in the car.” She jerked to her feet and spun toward me, sending those rivulets of dark hair down her back like a waterfall. It was so long and thick that I couldn’t keep my mind from very bad thoughts.
Like fisting a handful and pounding into her from behind, working her good and hard just to make her swear with those pretty pink, good girl lips.
“That’s not what I meant. I meant you walked through all that snow and you’ve gotta be all wet.”
“Nope.” She crossed her arms over her coat-covered chest. Hadn’t even loosened a damn button. “I pride myself on choosing outerwear that keeps me dry under all circumstances. Especially a short walk in a little snowstorm.”
I snorted. Couldn’t help it. “Little snowstorm? Born and raised in Turnbull, huh?”
“Maybe.” She gnawed on her puffy pink lower lip, and I knew she did it often. That was her tell. Along with those sneaky glances she kept taking of me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. “What difference does it make?”
“Nothing.” I turned back toward the hall. “I don’t care.”
“It’s just your clothes would all be too big. If I took a shower,” she added, her voice trailing off.
“What do you have on under that snowsuit? Anything resembling a T-shirt?”
“A cardigan and a silk blouse.”
With my back to her, I rolled my eyes. “Silk. Of course. Well, you can wear the blouse and tie the sweater around your waist for protection from my roving eyes if you want while you’re drying your super pants by the fire. I have a rack in the bedroom.”
“I don’t know you. It hardly seems proper to take off my clothes and…wash in your home.”
“Five minutes ago, you wanted me to strip you in my kitchen. Inconsistent much?”
“My God. I didn’t mean naked. You thought I meant naked? No. Not naked. I meant…not naked.”
“Oh, so you meant not naked?” I couldn’t hold back my smirk. “Just checking,” I said an instant before she flung her scarf at me.
Look at that, I’d even spotted a collarbone. Now we were getting somewhere.
“I was referring to my outerwear. In a friendly sort of way.”
“Oh right. Gotcha.” I nodded. “We’ve been like best friends this whole time.”
Despite her scowl, I could’ve sworn I glimpsed amusement in her big blue eyes.
Always blue. It was as if the universe knew I was a sucker for them, so I was sent some temptation every few months.
Ah hell, every few weeks. Sometimes every few hours.
I was currently having a dry spell. Or I had been until this one curbed it right into my ditch.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but some girls practice flirting on whichever big brute happens to be around. It’s a good way to try out new approaches.”
“Huh. Fascinating. Is accusing a guy of being a serial killer one of your approaches as well? If so, maybe retire that one.”
She let out a laugh and unzipped her coat. I was so taken aback that she’d revealed her white silk and pink cashmere—had to be cashmere, right?—beneath that I nearly missed the next thing she said.
“No, that’s what happens when you’re an entirely too street smart criminal justice student. My apologies.” She pulled off the coat and tugged her hair over one shoulder.
Luckily she didn’t know she’d transfixed me. Just like that.
Maybe it was the firelight dancing over her pale skin. Or the delicate necklace circling her throat. Or her eyes.
Her hair was a consideration too. Fistable, fuckable hair.
But the worst part? That little glimmer of a smile playing around her mouth. As if perhaps she did have an inkling I was more interested than not. She was a woman after all, and they had all their secrets when it came to unmanning the opposite sex.
“Why are you smiling?” I demanded.
“Oh, am I? Sorry. I shouldn’t smile without asking first.” She attempted to fix her expression into sober lines before letting her gaze drop for a second too long.
And I realized exactly how she knew I was feigning most of my disgust in her direction.
Damn dick, always getting me into trouble. That it was larger than the average tool didn’t do me any favors either. At least in situations like this.
Since I didn’t have a response, I went back into the kitchen to nuke my damn soup and grilled cheese.
I’d gotten as far as opening the microwave door when she stomped into the room. Her boots always made it sound like she was pissed off, but I didn’t check her face to see if I’d somehow offended her with my aroused member.
Fuck it, she’d offended me by being smoking hot and interrupting my private New Year’s Eve.
“Don’t do that,” she screeched as I was about to stick the pan into the micro
wave. I hadn’t been sure it would fit, but I was good at angles.
I sent her a sidelong glance as she snatched the pan from me. Very good.
“This isn’t safe for the microwave. You’ll start a fire. We don’t need that tonight.” She put down the pan on the counter and glanced around the small room before sorting through the cupboards above the broken stove. “Microwave-safe dish?”
“What the fuck all is that?”
She sighed and emerged with a pile of plastic bowls I’d thrown in the cabinet a couple of years ago. Her lips pursed and she blew off the layer of dust before digging one out from the middle of the stack. Then she dumped my soup into the bowl, covered it the bowl with a paper napkin, and slid it into the microwave, programming it for sixty seconds.
“To start,” she said. “It’ll require stirring and additional heating in thirty-second increments. You’ll have to check it.”
I grunted something, but it probably wasn’t “thank you.”
“Any other plastic plates? Flat ones? For the grilled cheese sandwiches,” she added as I stared.
“Sandwiches plural? I didn’t offer you one.”
Her face dropped and for a second, I felt like a dick.
Just a second because she opened her mouth.
“Just like I didn’t offer you my underwear, but you assumed. At least I won’t be hurting if I don’t get your crusty bread.” She waggled her brows at my groin. “Can you say the same?”
Then she sashayed out of my kitchen.
A moment later, I heard the shower turn on down the hall, right before the microwave sounded its cheerful little ding. I took out the soup and stirred, then slid the bowl back inside for another thirty seconds. Rinse and repeat one more time after that.
When I finally tasted the results, I was prepared for it to still be cold one layer down. Nope, Little Red Betty Crocker Hood apparently included cooking in her repertoire too.
Fuck it if the damn soup wasn’t perfect.
4
Maggie
The brute’s shower was a dream. Like a serious freaking wet dream, set in the middle of a cabin that was more lean-to than HGTV-special.
But now that I’d seen this bathroom, I so did not care. He could’ve had a fire pit in the kitchen instead of actual appliances, and it so wouldn’t have made a bit of difference.
Because he had all this.
The tiles were black and white, gleaming as if they’d just been cleaned with a toothbrush. The shower was a combo tub and appeared to be made from some kind of glazed wood. I didn’t know anything about fancy bathroom setups or the difference between high-end and simply pretty. All I knew was that the copper fixtures and huge tub and shower stall were calling my name.
So much so that I shut the door and shed my clothes without thinking of a few vital things that only occurred to me once I was under the orgasmically hot spray.
Did I mention the multiple shower heads?
Fuck me. I’d even swear for this one, though in my own head didn’t count.
But as amazing as the crisscrossing warm streams of water were, they didn’t keep me from realizing I hadn’t locked the bathroom door. Or located some towels before I hopped into a stranger’s shower and lathered up with—I looked at the large blue-green bottle in my hand—mountain man shampoo, for when you want to bring the wilderness inside you.
Huh. That sounded kind of dirty. And no matter how hard I scrubbed at my hair, I still didn’t have a towel.
Head full of suds, eyes stinging from water and shampoo, I tugged back the shower door and gave the bathroom a bleary glance. There weren’t even any cabinets in here. Was I just missing them? Where did the dude keep his toilet paper, for God’s sake?
My gaze alighted on the roll. That was an idea. I could hop out and dry off with a ton of toilet paper, and he’d never know I was too lame to even think of a towel.
Still, he was really letting down his potential guests by not thinking of their comfort and providing one within easy reach.
I snorted. Yeah, he was definitely Miss Manners in all other ways. He wouldn’t even give me a bite of his probably plastic-like cheese.
Screw it. I’d just woman up and ask for a towel. No big. I was a grown woman. He’d open the door—since you know, I’d skipped locking it, some crim justice student I was—and toss in a towel, and I’d finish the best shower I’d ever had in my life in complete peace.
First I would rinse off my hair. No sense in risking blindness.
As soon as I’d finished washing it, I grabbed the long length and pulled it over one shoulder. Time to summon help.
Right.
I took a deep breath. And another. And another, until the already foggy shower door turned seriously steamy.
Just do it.
“Hey—” I yelled out, belatedly realizing that I didn’t know his name.
I was naked and wet in his bathroom, but I couldn’t even call for him because I didn’t know if he was a Bob or a George or a Biff.
Biff would only be fair. He deserved to be a Biff, sourpuss that he was.
“Hey,” I yelled again over the roar of the water. I could have turned it off, but then I would freeze. Out there? Super cold. In here? Gloriously hot.
I intended to bask in that heat for another ten minutes or so, until the hot water gave out. Maybe it never would and I could hide in the shower for the rest of the night.
A girl could dream.
The bathroom door creaked open. I jolted, gripping the edge of the shower door as I cautiously inched it open.
This was not good.
A second later, a large tanned hand inched through the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. On the tip of his finger was a fuzzy gray towel.
“Looking for this?” he asked in a singsong voice, and I hated him more than a little.
Alas, I was desperate.
“Oh, thank God. You do have towels.”
“A towel, yes.”
“Wait. One towel?” I frowned and tried not to fidget. “Is it even clean?”
“It was before I used it for my shower this morning.”
“Ugh. Ew. Seriously?” As soon as the words were out, I bit my lip. Beggars and all that.
Though there was the TP…
“Sorry, I didn’t plan for little Red Riding Hood to deign to use my shower tonight.” He started to pull back his hand. “Carry on.”
“No, no, wait! How am I supposed to get dry?”
“I have a feeling you spend plenty of time dry, so figure it out.”
It took me a second to get his crude double entendre. I chalked up my slowness to the fact that I was standing with one foot on top of the other and swaying as I tried to get some of the hot water on my back while maintaining my grip on the shower door.
“Asshole,” I said under my breath.
“Excuse me? What was that? Did the virginal one just swear?” The door swung open and he lifted a hand to his rounded mouth as if he was stunned. “I just can’t believe—”
Then he just stopped talking. Stopped breathing too, or maybe that was only me.
I was naked on the other side of the only slightly opaque shower door, and that was discounting my precarious lean around the edge. My breasts weren’t tiny. He had to see…everything.
Damn near everything.
He wasn’t speaking, and he also wasn’t turning around to leave. Nor was I yelling at him to get out.
“Looks like I’m plenty wet right now,” I said sweetly, blowing a wet curl out of my eyes.
Dry and virginal, my ass.
When he stepped farther into the room, I realized this was not a man who could be stopped with a smart aleck remark. He’d just toss back something even worse at me.
“You hid a hell of a lot under that snowsuit, Red.” His voice was pure gravel.
A more prudent woman wouldn’t have darted a glance below his waist. But I’d just been dumped by my long-term boyfriend for a woman who wore feathers and spraypaint for
a living, so maybe I needed some reassurance.
That some random oafish man can get hard for your naked body? Nice, Mags. Real nice.
Except he’d been hard for me before, when I’d been more than fully dressed.
As for the current erection situation? All systems go.
Still not throwing him out, are you, Mags?
I cleared my throat and adjusted my grip on the door. I’d left behind wet fingerprints, and only part of the dampness was from the shower. I was that flummoxed by this guy.
By some stupidly hot stranger seeing me naked—and liking it.
“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” I whispered, the closest thing to a comeback I could summon.
His trance snapped, and his overly generous mouth curved. “You always say the thing I least expect.” He followed that up by walking forward and pulling open the shower door while I stood there slack-jawed like a dang guppy. Water sprayed out into the bathroom, hitting his cheeks and chest, and he just took his sweet time eating me up with his eyes.
And I let him.
Almost as if he was moving in slow-motion, he leaned over and turned off the water, then wrapped the towel around me and tucked the end in the front near my breasts. The towel that had been all over his naked body not that long ago.
“I hadn’t finished washing,” I said weakly. It was a victory that I managed to speak at all.
I’d already gone further with this man than I had with anyone other than Derek, and I didn’t even know his name.
“The hot water doesn’t last very long.” He spoke as nonchalantly as if we were sitting around fully dressed in his living room. “I put in a tank that accommodated my needs, and I take quick showers.”
“So you built this place yourself?”
“Yeah. With help, of course.”
“It’s…nice.”
“Glad you approve.” He smirked at me, and I fumbled to grip the edge of the towel, making sure it covered me. Not sure why I cared, since he’d already seen everything.
Including that I hadn’t shaved or…trimmed up in a few days. I hadn’t foreseen a need. My boyfriend and I were through, and I had recently rediscovered my love of flannel pajamas. Besides, what girl goes to town on her lady bits with the shave gel when she’s currently hating all men, forever and ever, amen?