"Holy shit," he mutters, and I glance around my yard, looking for what caused his exclamation.
"What?" I breath, scanning the space. Did the murder hornets make it to Atlanta?
"Sorry," he chokes out, and raises his hand to scratch at his beard before wrapping it around the back of his neck. "I don't remember you being so hot. It caught me off guard."
I freeze, my blood dropping to my feet only to race around my nervous system. A nervous giggle slips from my lips, and I want to run my head into the nearest surface. A giggle? Really, Shelby?
"Thanks. I think," I drawl out, turning the key and opening the door. “I can’t tell if that was an insult or a compliment.”
“A compliment, for sure,” he chuckles, and I feel the heat bloom in my cheeks again.
At the wave of my hand, he precedes me into the house, dragging his suitcase with him.
"Jack didn't warn you I was coming, I take it,” he says, looking around my tiny living area.
"No," I sigh, then try to paste a smile onto my face. "It's not his fault—you know how he is."
Derrick is standing by the door, and an indulgent smile tips up his lips.
"Yeah, I do. It's partly my fault. Or really, all my fault. I should have gotten your phone number when I called him, and then called you from the plane too. With everything going on though, it slipped my mind. I called him from the cockpit, using the satellite phone."
"You remembered to get my address though," I reply a little dryly.
"Well, yes. Like I said, it's my fault. Not Jack’s."
"Some would argue it's the pandemic’s fault," I smart back, and my stomach swoops when his ear to ear smile graces his face again. He really is handsome.
"So, I take it you're going to take me in? Like a stray dog?"
"Do you want to sleep in the back yard?" I wonder, and his eyes flash in amusement. "Or I could make you a doggy bed at the foot of the couch."
"My sister's dog sleeps with her," he offers, and I grin at him before realizing what he said.
This got dangerous fast.
Fixing a smile on my face, I tip my head in the living room's direction and move us away from the front door.
"Sorry," he says, somewhat abashed. "Old habits die hard."
"What habits would those be?"
Cause he certainly wasn't joking about sleeping in my bed the last time I saw him. Of course, I was still in college. Or maybe just out?
After I hit the button for my trunk, I throw my keys onto the kitchen counter, dropping my wallet next to them. The eggs go in the fridge, and I pull a few containers of never going to get eaten leftovers out, dumping the food into the trash before dropping the dishes down in the sink. He's followed me into the kitchen and is leaning against the entryway, watching me as I putter around.
"The flirting with beautiful women kind. I'll try to keep it contained."
I look at him from over my shoulder. His hands are in his pockets, and he's just standing there, staring at me with that weird look on his face.
That's twice he's called me beautiful, in about the same number of minutes. Or hot. Or whatever. The point still stands.
But then he apologized?
Oh God, this is going to be a long couple of weeks.
"Again. Thanks—I think," I reply, thoroughly lost for words.
He roughly clears his throat, grabbing at the back of his neck again.
"Anyway, thanks for taking me in, Cobra," he says, and his eyes are sincere.
I blush again, caught off guard by the old term of endearment. My brother and I were both named after car people. Carroll Shelby and Jack Rauch. When I was a kid, they used to call me Shelby Cobra, but no one has called me Cobra in years.
"You're welcome."
I face him and, against my will, my knees quake at having him filling up my space. I mean, Derrick is standing in my kitchen. The moment stretches between us, the tension in the air thick and heavy.
I pop my chewie in my mouth and, at his bemused look, spit it back out and rub my hands together instead.
"Let me get my car emptied, and we'll get you situated."
He jumps as if I've electrocuted him. "Oh, yeah, sure. Of course. Let me help." Before I can do more than blink, he's out the door and bounding down the front porch. Like a stray puppy I picked up off the side of the road. What just happened to my life?
Chapter 2
Shelby
“Let me give you the tour of the place.”
I wipe my hands off on my leggings, suddenly nervous in a way that makes me nauseous. It’s disconcerting, to say the least, to go from being alone all the time to suddenly having a person all up in my business. A stranger, for all intents and purposes. I mean, Derrick is Jack’s friend. Not mine. We were friendly at one point in time, but it’s been years since we’ve had a conversation.
“It’s not large, as you can tell. But it’s home. This is the front area,” I say, as I spread my arms wide in demonstration. It’s one large open space, with the living area being separated from the grandly termed dining room by my couch. I do have a dining table, but it’s currently playing host to a 3000-piece puzzle I’ve been working on for the last month.
There used to be a fireplace in the corner, but the previous owners had it blocked off.
There’s a sliding glass door that opens out to the back yard. I have a kiddy pool I keep filled for the random animals that traipse through the space, and there is a fire pit. Two lawn chairs sit on the concrete slab under the awning.
I walk across the living room to the far wall that holds three doors. On either side of the doors are pictures and artwork on the wall.
“This is the bathroom.”
I open the middle door, showing my galley bathroom. I only have the one, but it’s fairly spacious, if a little run down. The entire house is run down. Slowly, very slowly, I’m bringing it back up to date.
“This is my room,” I inform him as I open the door, then immediately squirm as he steps into the doorway to look. It’s rude, I want to say, to examine a woman’s private space. But I’m the one that opened the door for him, so I really have no one to blame but myself.
My bed is a queen size, neatly made with my grandmother’s quilt folded at the foot. There’s a matching set of bedside tables, distressed and well loved. I purchased them from an antique shop with the intention of refinishing the wood, then never got around to it. The closet is overfilled, with clothing and shoes spilling into the bedroom proper.
There’s a dresser in the corner with a huge tabletop mirror taking up most of the space. Knickknacks and stacks of books take up every other usable surface. Plus, some not so usable, as I turn a critical eye to the armchair I used to read in and now use to house all my junk. Including the book pile so high it’s tilting to the side.
I turn my gaze to him and watch as he catalogues the shoe rack filled with heels I never wear. The pile of stuffed animals that I am way, way too old for, yet still can’t seem to part with. I watch as his eyes linger on my bed, and something dark and primal flashes across his face before it clears so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it.
I try to pull the door shut, and when he refuses to take the hint, grab him by the back of the belt and give him a yank to get him moving.