He’s been hurt, captured, or worse…
Until his deep timbre cuts through the silence like a lifeline. “You’ll never guess what’s up here.”
CHAPTER 4
Knox
I came to Crystal Cove for peace and quiet.
Not because I’ve got a hero itch that needs scratching.
Except…no decent guy would’ve turned his back on someone scared half to death.
And lending a helping hand has nothing to do with thatchallenge,though thoughts of me untying Cami’s sheer, satin robe and mapping her with my tongue are already taking up more space in my head than I can spare.
But her mention of house-sitting all summer while Ms. Palmer—or Millie, as I know her—vacations in Costa Rica gave me pause.
An impromptu one-night stand with my bombshell neighbor could easily lead to unintended consequences, especially since we’d continue to have these run-ins—which seems to be our apparent norm.
So, after analyzing the situation, I’ve decided to tweak Mont’s challenge and, instead, bang thenexthottie I encounter.
Cami and I’d be nothing more than a pair of neighborly acquaintances.
We’ll smile and wave to one another in passing, borrow cups of sugar, or, case in point, lend one another a helping hand.
“Is it safe for me to come up?” Cami’s hushed tone floats through the spacious attic.
“Yeah, it’s safe,” I assure. “But tread lightly, so they don’t freak out.”
“Wait. Did you say, sotheydon’t freak out?” Seconds pass as though she needs a moment to steel herself. “Well, nowI’mfreaking out knowing there’s more than one of whatever’s been wreaking absolute havoc up there.”
I chuckle. “You might be pleasantly surprised.”
About a minute later, Cami makes her way up and freezes, lips parted as her gaze falls onto a pair of furry little noisemakers nestled in my lap.
“Oh. My. Goodness!” she squeals, her smile an explosion of bliss. “Are those…kittens?”
She’s changed out of that almost-sheer robe into shorts and a tight, white tee.
The shape of her full, perfect tits and pert nipples holds my gaze. I grit my teeth, tearing my eyes away and onto the tiny, wet, newborn kittens.
“Sure are,” I say, gently rocking the old wicker chair back and forth as if I were trying to lull two newborn babies to sleep. “And it looks like a rather exhausted Mama Cat is lurking from underneath there.” I gesture toward an antique table in the corner, cobwebs stretched across its weathered surface like threads of my grandpa’s old fishing line. “She’s likely the source of those grueling squeals.”
Cami treks toward me, floorboards flexing quietly under her bare feet, gaze laser-focused on the two kittens parked comfortably atop my lap.
“Careful,” I warn, rising to meet her halfway, kittens balanced under one arm. With my free hand, I take hold of Cami’s soft hand, guiding her as she navigates past empty paint cans and stacks of yellowed newspapers, ducking to avoidexposed beams crisscrossing overhead. “How about you sit in the rocking chair and cuddle these little furballs while I try to coax Mama Cat out of her hiding place?”
Cami nods, and I watch as she settles into the rocking chair before I hand over the meowing duo.
Gentle coos fill the dimly lit space as she cradles the tabby kittens, her infectious smile beaming with delight.
Damn. This woman has my attention anchored.
Look. The. Hell. Away.
Why won’t my eyes obey a simple command?
Maybe I should reconsider those neighborly boundaries.
