Mr. Guzman blew out a breath and said, “Wait here.” Then he disappeared inside the room.
I stared at the frosted glass door, wondering what was happening on the other side. I could hear men’s voices but couldn’t make out what was being said. Maddening.
Mrs. Guzman reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t let him intimidate you. He needs someone to push back at him for once.”
I turned my head to look at her. What did that mean? I was about to ask when Mr. Guzman reappeared, held the door open, and gestured for me to go in. By myself?
I hadn’t been nervous before but now I was. This was my moment of reckoning. Suddenly, my desire to meet the reclusive Mr. Daire seemed like the dumbest idea I had ever had in this life and I’ve had a fair few. This was like Dorothy going to meet the Wizard, except I didn’t have a squad with me. Damn it.
“Go ahead. They’re waiting,” Mr. Guzman said. He made a shooing gesture with his hands.
I stiffened my spine. The rules Mr. Daire had requested were ridiculous. I had a legitimate case to make for being allowed to use the facilities on the property, to have a pet, and to sing if I felt so moved. I was a human being, not a robot, and I deserved to be treated like one.
I strode into the room with my back straight and my head held high. It took me a moment to realize I had entered a gym. It was full of weights and equipment and had the distinctive locker room smell of disinfectant with an underlying odor, not entirely unpleasant, of sweat. Huh. I had been expecting a study or a library, okay, or possibly a dungeon with a torture chamber.
The clang of metal on metal brought my attention around. Supine on a bench press, with Jackson spotting him, was the hot guy from the window. My gaze swept the room, looking for an old retired guy, a Tony Soprano type, who clearly felt the need to have muscle-bound bodyguards at his beck and call. I had the panicked thought that maybe Mr. Daire was in the mob. There was no one else in the room, just Jackson, hot guy, and me.
This was bad. Were they going to break my fingers or something? What sort of torture was trending these days? Maybe I shouldn’t be watching crime dramas before bed. While I stood there plotting my escape—could I make it to the door?—the hot guy used the barbell he had just dropped into the rack above him, to pull himself up into a seated position. Beneath his gray sweat-soaked tank top, his every muscle was defined. Wow. I had to forcibly drag my gaze from his chest to his movie star–worthy face, where my brain sputtered like a candlewick in a strong breeze.
“Hello, Tenant,” he said. His voice was a gruff growl that scraped deliciously along my spine.
Wait . . . what?
“Tenant?” I repeated like a half-wit.
One perfectly arched eyebrow rose while he waited for me to figure it out.
“Oh my god, you’re Mr. Daire?”
14
“You expected someone else?” he asked.
Jackson smiled at me in acknowledgment and handed Mr. Daire a towel. I watched as he wiped the sweat from his brow. I resisted the urge to fan myself as I processed the fact that hot guy was my landlord. My landlord!
“Uh . . . um . . . no,” I said. “I mean, sure, Miguel said you were retired, which using any sort of deductive reasoning would make a person assume that you were of a certain age . . .”
My voice trailed off. I was babbling. Mr. Daire was the hot guy in the window. I had not seen this plot twist coming. And now I had to defend my egregious disregard of the rules to the hot guy who rendered me mute instead of the old duff I had expected to charm silly. Why you gotta do me this way, universe? Why?
“You thought I was a half-dead fossil,” he said.
He and Jackson exchanged a look and laughed. I was okay with the fact that they were laughing at me. I would, too, if there was anything about this that was even remotely funny. Jackson’s eyes were kind when they met mine, and it was obvious that he wasn’t the hard-ass that Mr. Daire was.
“In my defense, you do have a lot of rules that resemble ‘get off my lawn’ for a guy your age,” I said.
“I like order.” He picked up a water bottle and took a long drink. I tried not to stare at his throat.
“I think you mean you like control,” I corrected him. Did I really just say that? Out loud?
Jackson looked at me with raised eyebrows as if he thought I had a death wish. For the record, I do not.
Mr. Daire rubbed his square jaw with the back of his very large hand. I swallowed, fully expecting him to have his minion cart me out and toss me to the curb.
“Can you give us a minute, Jackson?” he said.
Jackson glanced between us. He didn’t look comfortable with this request, and I wondered what made him pause. Surely Mr. Daire wasn’t a violent man. Nor did I think that I came across as the type of woman who would pull out a gun and shoot her landlord, even if he was a huge pain in the ass. An incredibly hot pain in the ass, but a pain in the ass all the same.
I meant to look at Jackson and give him my grade A ingénue smile. Instead, I couldn’t manage to look away from Mr. Daire’s arms. I studied his biceps and realized two things. One, it would take more than both hands for me to fully encompass those muscles, and two, I really wanted to try. I felt Jackson staring at me and I glanced up.
“I’m harmless, I promise,” I said with a show of teeth.
Jackson grunted. He stepped close to me and said, in a voice even lower than Mr. Daire’s, “I’m going to the kitchen, but I’ll be right back.”
When the door shut softly behind him, I turned to my landlord and said, “Bodyguard or trainer or both?”
“What makes you think I need a bodyguard?” he asked. He sounded offended. Interesting.
“Given the charm with which you infuse your writings—they’re positively swoonworthy, really—I’m shocked—shocked, I say—that women aren’t lining up outside the gate to be with you.”
To my delight, he barked out a surprised laugh that made me grin in return.
“You’re fearless, aren’t you, Annabelle Martin?”
I ignored the way my name sounded coming from his lips. It would only cloud my already hot guy–impaired thinking. I did note the goose bumps that rose up on my skin, in the most delicious way, however.
“Not fearless,” I said. “A tad impulsive and a smidgeon reckless, maybe.”
“Why?”
“Why am I impulsive and reckless?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Because life is short,” I said. I slipped my right thumb under my opposite sleeve and ran my thumb over my tattoo just like I always did when I thought of my mom. It used to be a nervous habit, but now it was a comfort. I felt Mr. Daire watching me and I dropped my hand.