Page 67 of Knot So Social

My throat constricts. “Ma’am, I only do that in the shed that’s been allocated to me. And the view to the house is blocked. But if I’ve offended anyone, I’m happy to change.”

“Offend? Pfft.” She throws her head back and laughs. “Darling, quite the opposite. In fact, I was thinking—” She slips a finger through the loophole on my jeans and tugs. “How about taking a few more items off? You have a very sexy body, you know.”

A shiver runs through my soul. How do I extract myself without causing offense? Worst case scenario, she gets upset and tells me to vacate. Without a home address or place to sleep and store my equipment, my entire business will be in jeopardy.

“Signora,” I begin. “You and your husband have been most generous with me. I don’t want to do anything that displeases.” I pressure her hand off my pants and step back, my spine hitting the refrigerator.

She gives a tiny shake of her head. “You don’t need to be so old fashioned. My husband isn’t much up to the job anymore, if you know what I mean.”

I catch her eye. “Then shall we find him and invite him to join?” The idea makes me nauseous, but I need a way out.

Her expression turns ugly. “Don’t be stupid!” She catches herself and breathes deep. Calmer, she smiles at me. “Alessandro, be a darling and just do what I say.”

She spreads her legs wide on the counter, her knotted skirt slipping to either side of her knees.

The movement draws my gaze, despite not meaning to look.

Miranda slips her hand inside her bikini bottoms, fingers plying the skin beneath. “It’s right here, waiting for your Italian alpha cock.”

I turn my face away, my pulse racing. I suppose desire is a part of it; any woman offering her body is bound to get a man’s attention. But close on its heels comes the rush of instinct screaming danger! I must get away before this grows any worse. But how? Panic flows up my throat, choking me. The cool metal surface of the refrigerator chills my back.

Willow’s face flashes into mind, the way she cowered under the bench in fear. For some reason, it gives me the courage I need to step forward. No matter what’s at risk, I can’t do something I don’t believe in.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Warkow, but I won’t slink around behind your husband’s back. If you’ll excuse me now, I need to get back to work.”

Her jaw ticks as I push past her foot. She sits there, hand still fingering her pussy, as I leave. When I reach the door, she calls out, “You’ll take me eventually, Alex. Wait and see.”

I glance over my shoulder. Her mouth opens with a soft, orgasmic gasp, and as I turn and flee, she groans my name.

Nausea flutters in my stomach. Did that really happen, or is this a horrible nightmare? My landlord’s wife has the hots for me, and she thinks I’ll fuck her? Not in this life. But why was she so sure? The afterimage of her pleasuring herself on the bench, head thrown back calling my name, sears in my brain. And not in a good way. More like third-rate porn you can’t get out of your head.

Anybody got a cleansing soap for the brain?

Back in my shed, I close the door and windows—preferring to swelter than be followed—before wiping my body down and yanking a shirt on. Time for me to pack things up and go mow the lawns at Number Ninety Almonde Street. I put my mower back together and pack it into my trailer before scanning the driveway up and down. The coast appears clear, but I still drive faster than normal past the main house.

As I’m turning onto the main road, I recall I left my drill behind in the guest house somewhere with that woman. My heart sinks. What if Mr Warkow finds it? Or what if his wife takes it upon herself to return the tool to my shed and corners me again?

My private sanctuary just became a trap.

Chapter twenty-one

Joel

My buzzing phone blends with the hum of flies seeking shade on Jeremy’s porch. In the space of forty-eight hours, my entire life collapsed. Every hour, more messages pile up, first from Tracey and then from our friends, and finally from my employees when I don’t show up for work.

Everything I’ve spent a decade building is collapsing, and I can’t bring myself to care. Aliens could invade Earth right now, and I wouldn’t get out of bed. Jeremy’s bed, to be precise.

It’s a surprisingly comfortable mattress.

His tiny one-bedroom unit looks somehow bigger from this angle. More homey too. Our high school graduation photo decorates the wall at the foot of the bed, the picture with us beaming and holding our certificates while Mom, Dad, and the cousins squeeze in around us. My brother placed it right where he can see it every morning when he wakes up.

I don’t know if I even have any family photos.

Well, I only have the suitcase I packed right now and my work tools. Suppose I’ll need to go through the garage at some point. If I have any photos left, they’ll be there, where Tracey put them “out of the way.” Maybe the garage caught on fire and burned all my stuff.

Wouldn’t be surprised at this point.

I lie on my back, staring at the peeling ceiling and listening to my upset stomach gurgle until the urge drives me out of bed. With a groan, I stumble to the bathroom, tripping on my heavy work boots piled in the middle of the room. Did I leave them there? Tracey would’ve scolded me big time for that.