Page 3 of Level With Me

“Maybe?” I squeak, sounding far more desperate for this information than would be considered healthy. But come on, the man is in my kitchen. In my house. Willing to do a shitload of work for free. I need to know why. It’s what I do, being a journalist and all. Finally. No thanks to him. Damn, this is all coming full circle, and I blurt out, “You owe me.”

He laughs. Only thirty percent sounds like an amused version of laughter. The rest is more like, oh, the audacity of this woman.

“I owe you? Really?” He rocks back on his heels. “The way I see it, after all of this is said and done, you’ll…never mind.”

Oh, damn. He was about to say that I’d owe him. This just got juicy.

I don’t see Cam for the rest of the day, and while I’m writing my current article for the Lit Creek newspaper, I nearly forget that there’s a new man—a man I disdain—living in my house. Nearly forget. I can’t forget though because his cologne is lingering in the air. Or maybe it’s just lingering on the chair he sat in. Either way, it’s proven quite distracting. To my lady parts. And ignoring them has been a full time job.

That evening I’m about to make myself a salad for dinner when I hear something out in the yard, so I go to check it out.

And.

Damn.

If I thought his cologne was distracting, I’m not sure how I’ll get any work done after witnessing this image.

There, out in my yard is Cam with a hose. Shirt off. Spraying himself down. I swear I can see the outline of his dick—a very prominent outline—when the water shoots against his groin.

His head is thrown back, eyes closed, and he’s dragging a hand through his hair. This has got to stop. I have neighbors, like Tara, for Pete's sake. And she’s got kids. They can’t be seeing this strip show.

I slide open the back door and march out.

“What the hell are you doing—Ahh!” The scream shoots out of me as I trip down the stairs of my deck. A small deck mind you. A deck I have never tripped down in my life.

And…now…I have to say something. The man is not fazed. Gingerly, and I mean, at a snail’s pace, the man turns off the water, shakes it out of his hair, and saunters toward me. A little pep in his step, a little concern for my wellbeing, anything like that might have been nice. But do I get it? Nope. I get a dripping wet hottie—I mean…I don’t know what I meant—just a sopping wet man in front of me.

“You okay?”

I’m gripping my ankle, hopping on one foot. “Do I look okay?”

He gives me another one of his looks, the kind where his eyes trail my body in search of something, but I have no idea what he’s looking for. “I’ve seen you look better.”

What kind of backhanded comment is that? I just grumble and turn to hop back up the stairs.

“Let me help you.”

“I’m goo—”

I’m swept up in his arms. Pressed against his damp chest.

“You’re wet,” I say with as much disgust as I can muster against such a solid wall of muscle.

“Yup. That tends to happen when you shower.”

“Oh my God, no.” Before I can think it through, I’m spewing all kinds of nonsense. “You’ll use my shower before that happens again. You are not—I repeat—not showering in my backyard with a hose every day for the next few months.”

“How about every other day?”

“No.”

“With a bucket?”

“No.”

“In your front yard?”

“Oh my God, Cam—”