Smooth-Talking Stranger

by Lisa Kleypas

  “You have to tell me,” Lucy said. “You can’t just say you have a worse phobia than mine and then leave me hanging.”

  He pulled out a white plastic kit with a red cross on it. Taking an antiseptic wipe from the kit, he used his teeth to tear the packet open. “Give me your hand,” he said. She hesitated before complying. The gentle grip of his hand was electrifying, eliciting a sharp awareness of the heat and strength of the male body so close to hers. Lucy’s breath caught as she stared into those intense blue eyes. Some men just had it, that something-extra that could knock you flat if you let it.

  “This is going to sting,” he said as he began to clean the cut with gentle strokes.

  The breath hissed between her teeth as the antiseptic burned.

  Lucy waited quietly, wondering why a stranger would go to this amount of trouble for her. As his head bent over her hand, she stared at the thick locks of his hair, a shade of brown so rich and dark that it appeared almost black.

  “You’re not in bad shape, considering,” she heard him murmur.

  “Are you talking about my hand or my breakup?”

  “Breakup. Most women would be crying right now.”

  “I’m still in shock. The next stage is crying and sending angry text messages to everyone I know. After that is the stage when I’ll want to rehash the relationship until all my friends start avoiding me.” Lucy knew she was chattering, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “In the final stage, I’ll get a short haircut that doesn’t flatter me, and buy a lot of expensive shoes I’ll never wear.”

  “It’s a lot simpler for guys,” Sam said. “We just drink a lot of beer, go a few days without shaving, and buy an appliance.”

  “You mean … like a toaster?”

  “No, something that makes noise. Like a leaf-blower or chainsaw. It’s very healing.”

  That drew a brief, reluctant smile from her.

  She needed to go home and think about the fact that her life was entirely different than it had been when she woke up that morning. How could she go back to the home that she and Kevin had created together? She couldn’t sit at the kitchen table with the wobbly leg that both of them had tried to fix countless times, and listen to the ticking of the vintage black cat clock with the pendulum tail that Kevin had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. Their flatware was a jumble of mismatched knives, forks and spoons from antique stores. Flatware with wonderful names. They had delighted in finding new treasures—a King Edward fork, a Waltz of Spring spoon. Now every object in that house had just become evidence of another failed relationship. How was she going to face that damning accumulation?

  Sam applied an adhesive bandage to her hand. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about stitches,” he said. “The bleeding’s almost stopped.” He held her hand just a fraction of a second longer than necessary before letting go. “What’s your name?

  Lucy shook her head, the shadow of a smile still lingering. “Not unless you tell me your phobia.”

  He looked down at her. The rain was falling faster now, a fabric of droplets glittering on his skin, weighting his hair until the thick locks darkened and separated. “Peanut butter,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked, bemused. “Do you have an allergy?”

  Sam shook his head. “It’s the feeling of having it stick to the roof of my mouth.”

  She gave him a skeptical smile. “Is that a real phobia?”

  “Absolutely.” He tilted his head, studying her with those striking eyes. Waiting for her name, she realized.

  “Lucy,” she said.

  “Lucy.” A new softness edged his voice as he asked, “You want to go somewhere and talk? Maybe have coffee?”

  Lucy was amazed by the strength of the temptation to say yes. But she knew that if she went anywhere with this big, good-looking stranger, she was going to end up weeping and complaining about her pathetic love life. In response to his kindness, she was going to spare him that. “Thanks, but I really have to go,” she said, feeling desperate and defeated.

  “Can I drive you home? I could put your bike in the back of the truck.”

  Her throat closed. She shook her head and turned away.

  “I live at the end of Rainshadow Road,” Sam said from behind her. “At the vineyard on False Bay. Come for a visit, and I’ll open a bottle of wine. We’ll talk about anything you want.” He paused. “Any time.”

  Lucy cast a bleak smile over her shoulder. “Thank you. But I can’t take you up on that.” She went to her bike, raised the kickstand, and swung her leg over.

  “Why not?”

  “The guy who just broke up with me … he was exactly like you, in the beginning. Charming, and nice. They’re all like you in the beginning. But I always end up like this. And I can’t do it anymore.”

  She rode away through the rain, the tires digging ruts into the softening ground. And even though she knew he was watching, she didn’t let herself look back.