My grandfather was manly. Of note was he’d been seventy when I was born. I’d only known him in his later years.
The Sherriff was manly in a way that reminded me of Repo now, so was Fire Chief McClure. And they were both happily married to exceptional women. Those Winston boys were also manly. Yet they were young. So very young.
But Repo . . . not too old, not too young, not married. Like baby bear’s porridge, he was just right.
Except, you know, a criminal who pretends you don’t exist when he’s walking down Main toward Walnut.
“You look like you don’t know whether to check your ass or scratch your watch.”
“Pardon?” I blinked at him, realizing I’d been standing at the precipice of the room, lost to my thoughts about manliness.
He cracked a half smile. His dark brown eyes, illuminated only by firelight, moved over me with plain amusement. The flames highlighted the angles and lines of his handsome face, making him look distinguished instead of disreputable.
Repo’s attention lingered on my neck and chest, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath before saying quietly, “Never mind. Let me help you with that tray.”
“Oh. Oh no. I’ve got it.” I crossed to the coffee table and placed it on the surface, removing the candles and setting them on the table to give us some extra light. I then checked my side table for the brandy. He hadn’t touched it. “Let me get you a glass. Do you want a blanket?”
“No, thank you.” The big man cleared his throat, like he’d wanted to say something else but had abstained due to superior self-control.
I felt his eyes on me as I moved to the sideboard to select a tumbler, noticing that the blanket around my shoulders had become loose. I wrapped it more firmly around myself, then poured a double for my guest before turning and placing it on the coffee table next to his tray.
“Please. Sit.” I gestured to the sofa as I reclaimed my place on the chair by the fire, tucking my legs under me. “Eat.”
His gaze moved over me for a lingering moment, and I watched his chest rise and fall with another voluminous breath before he finally strolled to the sofa, sat, and studied the tray of food.
“This looks . . .” He swallowed, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “This looks delicious. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I studied him as I sipped my brandy, inwardly smiling at this rough man and his unexpected display of good manners. The last time we’d been together, he hadn’t been so well-behaved. At one point, I believe he’d told me to, and I quote, “Shut up.”
Granted, I’d shown up at a biker bar, dressed like a loose woman, looking for trouble. In my fine house, surrounded by my fine things, everything was different. We’d been in his world then; we were in my world now.
He ate in silence for a bit, his eyes studying the room, seemingly cataloging all my belongings. At length, when the sandwich was gone and so were two slices of pie, he lifted his chin toward a painting above my head.
“Is that a Wyeth?”
I didn’t need to check the painting to answer, but I was surprised he’d recognized the artist. “Yes. Andrew Wyeth.”
His steady gaze lowered to me and his mouth, framed by his salt and pepper beard, hitched on one side. “Don’t sound so surprised, gorgeous. I’m not as dumb as I look.”
I tilted my head back and forth in a considering motion. “You don’t look dumb, Mr. Repo.”
“Really?” He grinned, a flash of white teeth, a twinkle in his eye. His voice lowered an octave as he asked, “What do I look like, then?”
“Complicated,” I answered without thinking too much about it.
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.” His grin deepened and one of his eyebrows inched higher than the other.
I ignored that leading statement, because it couldn’t lead anywhere productive, and changed the subject back to art. “Where’d you learn about Andrew Wyeth?”
His grin fell, just a smidge, and he wiped his mouth with the napkin, leaning back on the sofa.
I didn’t really expect him to answer, so I was surprised when he turned his gaze to the fire and said, “A woman, not unlike you, thought I required some culture. She thought . . . well, she thought I’d benefit from an education that extended to subjects beyond my upbringing.” He glanced at his hands, huffing a humorless laugh. “She thought she could make me something different. Something better.”
“Better than what?” I had so many questions, but this one felt like the most pressing.
His eyes cut to mine and I felt the weight of them instantly, like a touch. Like he’d grabbed me with both hands.
“Oh, now Diane. You know the answer to that.” His tenor was low, gravelly, and he gestured mildly to my house as his mouth curved in a sardonic smile. “I’m dirt in your fingernails, gorgeous. No use being polite about it.”
I frowned at his assessment of himself. “That’s an overly dramatic simplification, Mr. Repo.”
“Whatever you say.” He shrugged, his tone still gentle yet holding an unmistakable edge of acrimony.
We stared at each other for a time—me watching him, him being watched, neither of us willing to speak.
Lord help me, I was curious. I wasn’t usually the curious sort, more interested in the doing of things rather than the pondering of things. If a task required more than a half-hour of thought, I was of the mind that it should be delegated. Let an expert handle the details and just give me the summary.
But not tonight. Not with him. Not in the dark. Not after two glasses of brandy, a sexy book on my mind, and silk on my skin.
It was almost one year to the day since I’d walked into the Iron Wraith’s club. Last December I’d called it a Christmas present to myself. I might’ve spent the twelve months since engaging in healthy behaviors, but the memory of my indulgence, with him, had never been far from my mind. And I wanted to know the truth, about so many things.
So, I blurted, “Why did you agree to my request last year? When I showed up at the club?”
His eyebrows jumped a tick on his forehead, his eyes widening a smidge. But his features smoothed otherwise, the tension in his shoulders dissipating. Though the question seemed to surprise him, apparently it also relaxed him.
“What a ridiculous question.” He both smiled and frowned at me, his eyes skating down then up my form.
“How so?”
“A beautiful woman walks into my club, dressed like you were—”
“How was I dressed?”
“Like you wanted to get laid.”
“I guess I said as much, didn’t I?” I mused, grinning and laughing despite myself and the memory. Or maybe because of it. “Okay, go on.”
He chuckled and the deep rumble made me shiver, sent spikes of lovely feminine awareness racing over my skin.
“What else is there to say?”
“What were you thinking? When you saw me?”
“I was surprised, to see you there.” He paused, his eyes narrowing, like he was debating his words.
He bit his lip, chewed on it, his gaze growing distant and hazy as though he were remembering all those months ago.
Finally, he said, “And I didn’t want you to cause any trouble.”