“Geez. Tough crowd. I’m kidding, big guy. I’m not going to prance around your house naked,” she said behind him.
For fuck’s sake. Stop saying naked!
“I’ll get you a key,” he said as he focused all his attention on bending over to pick up the tackle box without cutting off circulation to his stupid, throbbing erection.
“Need a hand?” she asked.
Hand. Mouth. Hot, wet pussy. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Nope. I got it,” he rasped. He stood, holding the box in front of his crotch.
“So I guess the only thing left to do…”
His mind went wild for a moment, fantasizing about folding her over the table and dragging those leggings down her thighs. He imagined what it would be like to see his handprint pink on one of those ivory globes.
She was looking at him expectantly as if she’d said something that required his response.
“Sorry. What?”
“The only thing left is to agree on the rent.”
“Rent,” he repeated. Looking at her was only making him harder.
“Yeah. You know how rent works, right? You give me space? I give you money?” Her smile, though small, was a little warmer.
He shook his head, aiming some of his annoyance at her. “I’m not taking your money.”
“Don’t be so old-fashioned. Name a price.”
“I mean it,” he said sternly. He set the tackle box down and tried to pretend that a hard-on wasn’t hell-bent on tunneling its way out of his pants.
“Now you’re just being—”
Of course she looked down. Those green eyes locked onto his zipper and her pink lips parted in a sexy little O.
“Now I’m just being what?” he prompted.
“Just being…grouchy?” She was still staring. And he was starting to like it.
“You’re asking me if I’m being grouchy?”
“What?” She gave a little head shake and dragged her gaze away from his pants. “I mean. Food. Cooking. Well, baking. I’m pretty good at baking things.”
She was looking at the ceiling now, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He wanted to order her to look down again, then realized he was being a masochistic idiot.
“Fine. Baking. I’ll walk you out.” And wrap his hand around his dick the second he shut the door behind her.
He led the way, in a hurry to get her out of his house, out of his head. At the front door, he spotted the bag on the floor and grabbed it.
“You look tired,” she observed. “Are you okay?” She was looking at his crotch again. Only this time, her tongue darted out, and she licked her lower lip.
His cock twitched in reaction, and she made a strangled little noise. A man could only take so much torture.
“Fine. Great. Good.” He held the bag out to her. “Here.”
“What’s in the bag?” she asked, looking as if she was addressing his dick.
“Meat. It’s for you. Pickings are slim this time of year. Figured you haven’t had time to stock up.”
He held out the handles and tried not to jump back when her fingers got tangled in his. Normal people could touch other people’s fingers and not get hard-ons. Not spontaneously erupt in their uniform pants. He needed to be normal.
“Mac and cheese? You remembered.” She looked up at him with a real smile, and it hit him dead center in the chest. Ah, fuck. This was a huge mistake.
“Everybody likes mac and cheese,” he said gruffly.
“This is really sweet of you, Brick.”
“Yeah. I’ll get you a key.” He ripped the front door open. “I’ll see you around.”
“Is it okay if I put my boots on first?”
Fuck. “Yeah. You can let yourself out. I have to…” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Get back to work.” Yeah, that was it.
Without another word, he turned his back on her and headed for the back of the house as if he was running toward an emergency. By the time he got to the bathroom door in what was now Remi’s new studio, he already had his dick in his hand.
Before he slid the pocket door closed, he was already giving his shaft a violent stroke.
He barely had time to brace one hand on the vanity, barely had a moment to imagine himself peeling down those leggings and bending her over before he was already coming. It was an unrelenting torture, being this close to her and still fucking his own goddamn hand. That first wrenching spurt dragged a groan out of his throat as he painted the countertop with his release, wishing it was Remi’s tight little ass.
“God damn it,” he panted, stroking his way through it.
The woman reduced him to this. To an emergency jerk-off session in the middle of the fucking work day after a simple conversation. Was this what it would be like with her here?
He grabbed the hand towel off the hook.
“‘Here’s a bag of meat.’ Idiot.”
6
Fourteen years earlier…
Brick paused on the porch outside the screen door that led into his grandparents’ kitchen to brush the dust and dirt from his jeans and peel off his boots. It was a new routine that came with a new life. One he wasn’t sure he was adjusting to.
It had been a good day of hard work. He’d picked up some odd jobs as a handyman but most recently had landed a full-time position at one of the stables. Being able to continue working with horses was the highlight of the move to Mackinac Island with his little brother in tow. The rest of it basically sucked. Because as much as he enjoyed working in the stables, he still had to return to someone else’s home. To people who were strangers to him. To a grandfather who looked at him and saw nothing more than a reflection of his father.
But he could deal with it. He’d bear it as long as it took for Spencer to feel comfortable here. Then Brick would be free to move on with his life. At twenty-four, he felt like if he could get far enough away from his father’s shadow, there might still be good things in store for him.
He bent and peeled off one boot when a cheerful voice carried out to him.
Remi Ford. He knew it without peering through the screen. The wild child redhead who lived two blocks away was in his grandparents’ kitchen. He debated slipping around to the front door and hightailing it upstairs. There was something about the girl that made his palms sweat.
She looked at him like she had plans for him. But then he heard his name from her lips and paused.
“You must be so proud of Brick,” Remi said.
He dared to sneak a glance inside. His grandfather, an old man with wispy hair and a wheelchair, sat at the kitchen table with his back to the door. Remi sat next to him, spooning up something bright yellow and holding it to the man’s thin, chapped lips.
It should have been sad, devastating even. The withered old man whose life had whittled down into a handful of rooms and a wheelchair being fed by the vibrant, bubbly teenager. But Remi was the wild card. There was something almost beautiful about it. About her.
“William,” his grandfather muttered gruffly in his painful, post-stroke speech.
“I call him Brick,” she insisted, scooping up another spoonful.
“Dad prison. Same name. Same blood,” his grandfather rasped.