“Your ankle?” His hazel eyes swept down her legs with hawklike precision. She flushed as she realized she must look like crap right now, dressed in a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt. Her hair was even pulled up in a messy bun. This was not how she had pictured having her first—or any—face-to-face meeting with Colt. It wasn’t fair that men could shower and throw on clothes and look fine, but women needed to schedule in advance.
Colt’s dark brows lowered with obvious frustration at her lack of response. “Can you walk?”
“Yes. I can.” She would walk out of there even if it killed her. Stupid tuna cans . . . She wasn’t a klutz, but he would probably assume she was now.
“Good. You sure know how to make an entrance, sweetheart.” He extended his hand and said, “I’m your new neighbor, Colt Henshaw.”
Ophelia placed her hand in his and his warm hand closed around hers in a surprisingly gentle squeeze despite his strength.
Colt looked at the cans of tuna still rolling around. A young man wearing a grocery store apron was trying to collect the cans still cruising down the aisles.
“They’ll never let me come back here,” she moaned. There had to be at least a hundred cans of tuna to pick up. “Sorry! So sorry!” she called out to the clerk, whose face was flushed as he tried to gather up the cans.
“It will be fine. He’s probably glad your cart didn’t hit the honey. He’d be mopping that up for hours.”
“Oh God, don’t remind me. If you hadn’t caught the cart . . . Thank you for that, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.” After they helped the clerk pick up the cans, he nodded at her purse. “Give me your list. I’ll get what you need, and you can wait up front for me. Rest your ankle.”
Was he serious? It was hot that he wanted to do something like that for her, but also a little insulting that he just ordered her what to do. She had the strange urge to defy him, then maybe kiss him, hard. Ophelia wasn’t used to battling such a dichotomy of emotions when it came to men.
“I didn’t bring a list. I was so tired from unpacking that I just drove straight over.”
“Ah,” he murmured in understanding.
“And thank you, but I really am okay. I can shop for myself.”
The dubious look he gave her would have pissed her off if she hadn’t been so damn tired.
“Wait here.” His tone brooked no argument. He walked back to the meat counter and spoke to the butcher, who handed him another package of meat. Then he came back to her.
“We’ll get you the essentials.” Colt set his basket inside her cart and then took control of the cart. He was definitely former military, someone who just took charge.
“Seriously, you don’t need to—” But he was already pushing her cart down the next aisle.
“You have no food, and you’re tired. I was planning to cook steak tonight, and I don’t mind tossing an extra one on the grill for you.” He stopped next to the baking supplies, grabbing several items for her. “You aren’t one of those girls who doesn’t eat meat, are you?”
“No, steak is fine, but—”
“Then come to my place tonight at seven.”
“Oh, what the hell. Thank you.” She sighed and kept pace with him as he continued to fill her cart. “Fabric softener?” She was surprised that he put that in the basket. Her last boyfriend hadn’t even known how to turn on the washing machine.
“What? Surprised that I’m a civilized man?”
She swore she detected a hint of humor in his tone and couldn’t resist teasing him back. “No, I’m sure you’re quite civilized. Anyone who has azaleas growing like you do has to be.”
Despite his beard concealing his expressions, she caught a small smile. He didn’t speak much as they filled up the rest of her cart. Normally, Ophelia would have been tempted to try to coax more answers out of him, but she was too tired.
“I’m Ophelia Wescott, by the way. I wasn’t sure if you knew or not. Miranda said the homeowners’ association emailed a newsletter this morning, but I wasn’t sure who read it.”
He snorted. “I never read that crap, unless I need to fall asleep.”
“You don’t? I never would’ve guessed you’re the type to buck convention, Mr. Broody McBroodster.” She didn’t mean to reply so sarcastically, but she tended to get cranky when she was tired.
It didn’t seem to faze him. “Mr. Broody McBroodster?” He chuckled, the sound almost warm and welcoming. But he glanced at her as they reached the self-checkout.
“You scan, I’ll bag.”
“Sir, yes sir.” She gave a mock salute, expecting him to get prickly, yet he smiled again, and damn if that didn’t send all sorts of wonderful butterflies tumbling around her stomach.
“So, Ophelia . . .” He spoke her name as they started scanning and bagging.
“Yeah, I know, it’s a mouthful. That’s what happens when your mother’s an English professor.”
But to her surprise, he closed his eyes and began to recite something from memory:
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,
Whiles, like a puffed and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,
And recks not his own rede.
Ophelia stared at him. The man had just quoted from Hamlet, a passage spoken by the character Ophelia. She wasn’t a huge Shakespeare fan, but her mother was, and she’d spent countless nights listening to her mother read it aloud when she was a child.
“You’ve read Hamlet?” As if she needed another reason to like him, the man could quote literature.
“You seem surprised.”
“Not surprised in a bad way. I thought only my mother could quote Shakespeare off the cuff like that. Color me impressed.”
“I’ll admit I didn’t actually enjoy Shakespeare as much as other things I’ve read. But I wanted to challenge myself. I’ve even read Chaucer and learned about the Great Vowel Shift around the time Middle English was in use. Not easy shit to learn.”
“Chaucer? Wow, you really do like a challenge!” Ophelia chuckled.
His hazel eyes met hers. For a second, she was lost in his gaze, her heart fluttering, until he broke the spell by looking away once the last bag was filled. They quickly paid for their groceries, and he walked her to her car.
“Remember, seven tonight. Noah and I will be waiting.” And with a devastating, panty-melting smile, he walked away across the parking lot.
Ophelia stared after him, wondering what she’d gotten herself into, and she was more than a little worried about who Noah was.
2
Ophelia crept across her lawn in the growing dusk, wearing a brightly colored blouse, jean shorts, and sandals. She hoped that none of her new neighbors would see her heading toward Colt’s house. The last thing she needed was to be the center of neighborhood gossip. With a furtive glance around, she knocked on the navy-blue front door. The door opened, and Colt stood there, towering over her. She stepped back, far too aware of how close they were.
His strong body emanated heat, and she could smell a blend of fabric softener and lemon. Had he been doing laundry and cleaning . . . just for her? She wanted to think so. There was something sexy about a man who rushed to clean up his place for a woman coming over. It made her think of tumbling onto clean sheets with him and having insanely hot sex on them.