Cam Leon shivered, his fingertips turning blue. Wet hair plastered to his scalp. Raindrops clung to his eyelashes. She scanned the front yard and what she could see of the long gravel driveway curving through the woods to the road. “Where’s your car?”
“I have a…scooter. I parked it around the bend.”
“You rode here on a scooter? In the rain?”
His shivering got to her. If he was an axe murderer, he’d come woefully unprepared. No axe. No getaway car. No umbrella. His picture was plastered on the highway. Millie, who she trusted, had sent him. He had to be legit. But if he could get a modeling gig, why would he want to work as a handyman? Then again she’d experienced firsthand how one’s fortune could reverse. Once she’d lived in a gated community with all the luxuries money could buy. Now she squeaked by in a fixer-upper and bought everything secondhand at the thrift store. Money didn’t buy happiness…
“Come inside. We’ll talk. If you know what’s good for you, don’t try anything funny.” She brandished the bear spray.
He recoiled, nearly falling off the porch.
His reaction seemed a little over-the-top, but at least he’d gotten the message she meant business. If he made one wrong move, she’d zap him! Seated in the diner, she hadn’t noticed how big he was. All muscled bulk with a massive chest and broad shoulders, he towered over her five-foot-seven frame. He was damn near as big as that bear. But strangely, oddly vulnerable…
Vulnerable. Right. Because I’m such a great judge of character. She stifled a self-deprecating snort, stepped back, and gestured for him to enter.
He avoided hitting his head by about an inch, and his shoulders brushed the doorframe.
She followed him inside and shut the door. He consumed the space of her small living room, making her feel tiny—and aware she was in her pajamas and robe. She tightened the belt.
“I’d, um, offer you a cup of coffee, but you don’t like it.” She moved around the room, switching on lamps. The sun had risen, but the gray, rainy skies kept the day as dark as dusk.
“No.” He screwed up his face like a little boy refusing spinach, and she almost laughed. She’d never met a man who appeared both rough and rugged and cute.
She cocked her head. “Unless you let me fix you a cup the way it’s supposed to be?” She preferred her coffee black, but with a “normal” balance of milk and sugar, he might like it, and she could claim another coffee convert, she joked to herself. In reality, she’d get him settled with a drink while she donned some armor. She’d feel more in control when she was dressed. If these eventful mornings were going to continue, she would have to switch her shower schedule to the evening.
He hesitated. “All right. Thank you.”
“Come on into the kitchen.”
Broken glass and coffee splattered the floor. She’d forgotten she’d dropped her cup.
He eyed the mess. “I scared you. I’m sorry.”
“You startled me. I wasn’t expecting a man to peer into my window. Let me clean the mess.” She slipped the bear spray into her robe pocket so she could clean up the mess. She swept up the shards and blotted the liquid with paper towels. Black coffee wasn’t sticky, so the floor could wait to be mopped. After washing her hands at the dribbling kitchen faucet, she grabbed a mug from the cupboard. In his coffee she added a spoonful of sugar and a small amount of milk.
“Try this.” She handed him the coffee. “Let me know if you’d like it sweeter or lighter.”
She almost chuckled at his expression, wary, as if she was attempting to poison him. Her tension released, and she relaxed.
Only to become flustered when their fingers brushed and her arm tingled. Their eyes met, and her stomach fluttered with a heated sensation. Her therapist had said she should give herself time to heal before she started dating, and she’d agreed. She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to date. She damn sure never wanted to get married again.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and dropped her gaze. His fingertips were still blue—not the purple normally associated with cold, but a deep sky blue.
He raised the mug to his lips. “It’s not bad!”
She laughed at his wide-eyed expression. “I might turn you into a coffee drinker, yet.”
He took a large gulp. “Maybe. What did you put in this to make it better?”
“A teaspoon of sugar and dash of milk. You added too much sweetener to your coffee yesterday. One packet—or two—of sugar is about all you need. And the artificial stuff is way sweeter.”
“You make good coffee. Thank you.” He smiled with his whole face.
Inside, she lit up, clutching the unexpected compliment like a treasure. How long had it been since anyone had praised her efforts for anything? Her therapist’s encouragement—“you’re making great progress”—hardly counted.
“Um, well, you’re welcome. Why don’t you, uh, have a seat at the kitchen table? I’ll get dressed, and then we’ll talk.”
He sat, and she fled, locking the bedroom door behind her—just in case.
Chapter Eight
The door creaked and then clicked, and Chameleon sighed with relief. With Kevanne out of sight, he could regain control. Her presence had caused his body to go haywire.
He’d been attracted to her yesterday, but the way she appeared his morning, attired in a long, light-purple robe, impractical but charming fuzzy shoes, her hair mussed, her expression alternately open and bemused, made him want to pull her into his arms and hug her tight. Kiss her. Their fingers had touched when she handed him the cup, and hot desire had rocked him clear down to his bluing fingertips. He’d begun losing the personification again! He didn’t think she’d noticed, but he had to get himself under control.
After another gulp of the delicious coffee, he set the mug down and inhaled several deep, calming breaths. Blocking distractions, he closed his eyes and focused on what he wanted to become—the man on the billboard. He pictured his new form, willed the change, and when he opened his eyes, his fingers had returned to normal. Well, back to human anyway.
He drained the last sip of coffee. He wondered if preparing another cup for himself was allowed. Better not. He’d caught the gist peering into someone’s window was not permissible. He’d frightened Kevanne so bad, she’d dropped her cup. He considered himself lucky she hadn’t blinded him with the bear spray again.
She’d waved it around, and all he could think of was he didn’t have Psy to help him if she shot him.
He smoothed the flyer she’d posted in the bait shop. The paper had gotten wet while he stood in the rain outside her window, but he could still read it. HELP WANTED HANDYMAN.
He was a man, and he liked to think he was handy, so the employment offering seemed like a good fit, although he wondered what the specifics entailed. After the discussion aboard the Castaway last night, he’d gone into Argent and asked the first man he’d encountered about jobs. The man had directed him to the bait shop across the street from the diner.
The handyman ad was the only employment opportunity. He hadn’t realized Kevanne had posted it at first because it didn’t have a name, just a number. He didn’t have a phone. Busy selling bait to a couple of fishermen, the proprietor couldn’t talk, so Chameleon had taken the ad to the diner.