"Hmph." I turn up my nose playfully, despite the butterflies racing around inside me. These butterflies aren't from nerves;these are varied emotion creatures, trepidation and unease and concern and, strongest of all, delight. Before today, I would've called Peter a friend and a client, but that was before he held me in his arms in that store, so safe and secure. Before he defended me to the store owner. Before he admitted he likes the way I smell.Intoxicating. That was the word he used. What I didn't tell him was that I remember the night I met him, how I catalogued his scent. Cedar and citrus.
I didn't mention it because it seemed inappropriate to say, and maybe that's what has these frenetic butterflies flapping their wings. It's becoming increasingly difficult to deny the chemistry between me and Peter. I'm not sure how much of a problem that is. Is it something I should address with Duke? Or is it only a passing fancy, an attraction that will disappear when he leaves town?
Peter takes the final turn that will lead him to the development.
"It's Hugo's rental property," he reminds me, turning the steering wheel in that way that's been driving me crazy since I got in this truck with him a couple hours ago. He flattens his hand on the wheel, pressing harder with the heel of his palm, to where his fingers aren't touching the wheel.
It's unbelievably sexy. And, leaving the disaster of a trip to the home décor store, his backup camera was blocked by dust, so he hooked an arm over the back of the seat, gripping my head rest, and reversed the old-fashioned way. The sun shone off his blond hair, highlighting the gray flecks in his blue eyes, and all I could think waswell, this is how I die.
Do not get me started on the rippling of the tattooed forearm. I will surely perish if I spend one more moment envisioning his arms wrapped around me like they were in that snooty store. And then the way he came to my defense. Like some kind ofhero, riding in to rescue his lady and banish the awful witch. Or, you know, tell her to fuck right off.
All this to say, the day has been a humdinger. I need a drink. Maybe an orgasm, or three. All delivered by yours truly, because Duke and I don't get down like that.
I take a moment to study Peter's profile. Thick thighs, a shirt that falls just right from developed pec muscles. And those forearms. Sweet mother, those might demolish me.
"Home sweet home," Peter says as we pull up to Hugo's rental house.
I pretend to study the house through the windshield, then say, "All seems to be in order," and throw him a wink.
"Are you a home inspector? Because I don't need anybody else nagging me."
"Who is nag number one?"
"Bobbie from the HOA. Do you know her?"
"No."
"Perfect. Now I can talk shit about her, and it won't bother you."
"Talk all the shit," I say dramatically, adding a grand sweep of my hand before climbing from the parked truck. "What'd she do?"
"Harassed me for allowing the neighborhood kids to draw on my driveway in chalk."
"Seriously?"
He nods. "Yeah. But I used my artistic abilities to deliver her a message." He reverses the truck back down the driveway into the street. Indicating with his chin toward his driveway, he says, "The most recent rain washed it away, but you can still make out a little bit of the outline if you look closely."
I lean forward, squinting. It comes to life, a large white circle, red tufts on the top third. "Are those eyes? And a... red nose?"
Peter nods enthusiastically. "Bobbie the clown."
A cupped hand covers my mouth. "Did you draw that?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny how that clown drawing appeared on my driveway."
My lips press together as I shake my head. "You're a troublemaker."
"Rebel," he corrects, shifting back into drive and parking on the driveway. "Bobbie deserves it. I bet she knows the rude shop owner."
"Those swamp hags are probably best friends," I declare, getting in on it. "Maybe they attend group meetings."
Peter nods decisively. "Hags 'R' Us."
I hop out, laughings at our antics. "I'll pull the trash can up from the curb," I yell over the vehicle. Trash is about the least sexy thing I can think of right now, and after Peter admitted he likes the way I smell and proceeded to drive in a manner fit for a romantic hero, I need a dose of something unpleasant to quell the thirsty ho living inside me.
My fingers are wrapped around the handle of the trash can when I notice a piece of paper taped to the top. I opt for reading the paper, peeling it off and bringing it up to my face. My eyes bulge.Oh shit.
Peter's reaction is going to be epic.
