I fiddle with the clean bowl, turning it upside down then upright on the dish rack.
Then tap my foot.
Thinking about all the reasons why I shouldn’t.
Until a healthy dose of curiosity grasps hold of me once more and I return to the door, and to spying on the stranger.
I don’t understand how he knows I’m here—a sixth sense or something—but this time, he turns.
His head lifts.
Our eyes connect.
The heavy, humid air inside the trailer thickens like fog. Leaving me lightheaded. Breathless.
His hood is now pulled up over his head, adding to the dangerous vibe that seems to seep from his pores. His eyes cut straight through me, piercing me with their intensity. High cheekbones framing a crooked nose that’s likely been busted a time or two. There’s scruff on his chin like he’s forgotten to shave. His lips are full, yet pulled tightly into a firm, no-nonsense line.
I feel unbalanced. I had a similar feeling earlier, after being woken up from my deep sleep on the living room sofa by three loud pops. I lay there, stiff and still and a bit unnerved. Wondering if a kid had gotten hold of some fireworks. Or worse, his hands on a gun. Happy Times might not be the Ritz Plaza but it’s typically quiet and peaceful. I’d peeked outside but nothing seemed amiss. I waited to fall back asleep for what seemed like an hour, listening for any and all suspicious sounds, ready to dial 911 at the slightest noise. Until I was certain whatever had awoken me had passed and promptly gave into my sleepiness.
The next time I looked outside, the stranger was on my stoop.
What if he’s waiting for my sister?
I should find out. It’s not like he’s oblivious to how I’ve been studying him from behind the thin lace curtain.
I swallow hard, still staring at him. Aware of him and the fact that he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And for some strange reason, I feel compelled to talk to him. I crack the door open.
“Are you here for Kylie?”
He shakes his head ever so slightly. Is that a yes or no?
Thunder sounds off in the distance. It’s definitely going to storm. “You can wait inside for the weather to pass,” I murmur, making up my mind and throwing caution into the wind, the kind that comes rolling through Oklahoma like hell on a high breeze. “But I need you to prove you’re my sister’s friend. Otherwise, I highly suggest you seek shelter somewhere else.”
“‘Never mind the bollocks,’” he mutters in a low voice.
I blink, then burst out laughing. Oh sweet Heaven. He is a friend of Kylie’s. He’s quoted a line from one of her eclectic rock-’n-’roll T-shirts. I open the door wider. “Come on inside.”
Either he doesn’t hear me or he’s ignoring my offer. Hard to say.
It thunders again.
I watch to see if he notices. Or cares.
Trouble, I think, brewing right on my front step, much like the angry gray clouds rolling in.
Will he ignore them, too?
“Suit yourself,” I say. Yet I hesitate as my fingers skim across the door’s cheap lock. Ridiculous ever believing this tiny bit of metal would keep danger at bay. Still I don’t lock the door, leaving my offer open in case common sense kicks in and urges him to come inside and out of harm’s way. Whoever he is, if he doesn’t move soon he’s going to get soaked to the bone, even if he lives close by.
I return to the kitchenette, tidying it. Waiting. Waiting for the storm to pass or kick up in intensity. Waiting for him to move on . . . or inside. Waiting for the oven to chime, which it does exactly twenty minutes later.
If you want moist yet fluffy cupcakes, baking time is half the battle. Tonight is special. Monumental. Not an occasion to be nibbling on overbaked cupcakes that’ll crack your teeth. Moving to the oven, I remove the cupcake tray and place it to cool on the carving board I’ve laid out on the tiny countertop. I’m working on meticulously spearing a second cupcake with a toothpick when the lights flicker. He’s got to be long gone, right?
I’m testing a fourth cupcake, one on the end, when a loud boom echoes across the trailer park. The lights flicker. Then the rain begins. A deluge, from the sound of it.
Not a time to be outside. He had to have run for cover after that last big boom.
Mercifully, the lights stay on as I finish checking the last of the birthday batch. I’m in the process of sucking a tiny cupcake-blob off the end of a toothpick when I hear it.
A light tap on the door.
No way.
Sometimes in life, choices just aren’t part of the plan. When fate interferes and bulldozes right over you. Hadn’t I learned that the hard way after Mama’s cancer diagnosis?
Swallowing back the tiny, tempting treat, I stare at the door. The tin roof rattles beneath the heavy onslaught of rain.
Another tap. Not too aggressive. Yet loud enough to be heard over the wind kicking up outside. It’s going to be a nasty one. But so far, no hail and no sirens or any warning that the rain is a prelude to a twister.
I race over to the door and, dismissing all thoughts about stranger danger, and then tug it open.
Rain hits me hard in the face. It’s coming down in sheets. “Hurry,” I say, stepping aside so he can enter.
“Lock it,” he says, moving past me and into the kitchen. The raw gravel in his tone has me working hard at catching his words.
“Lock the door?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him for a second. His gray hooded sweatshirt is in his hand. Why had he taken it off? His blond hair seems brown, darkened by water with drops rolling off of his sharp chin and onto his white T-shirt. A thoroughly drenched T-shirt that now clings to the curves of his broad, muscled chest. A transparent T-shirt, too—not only can I see his hardened nipples but the pink hue of areola surrounding them.
A blush spreads across my cheeks.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
I look down and am rewarded by the sight of his soaked jeans, which has the same form-hugging effect as his T-shirt. And he’s facing me, so . . .
Oh God.
He’s big. In all the right places—not that I’ve ever visited such a place like his. Or anyone’s, for that matter.
He simply stands there, frozen. Letting me look my fill, his eyes narrowing on me like I’m the hot mess of a hunk soaked to the skin and leaving puddles on the worn linoleum floor. I shudder from the dampness. From the mere size of him, six feet two of corded muscle rolled into one terrifyingly rugged stranger. In one hand, he holds the branch and in the other, a knife.
Oh my God.
“Do it,” he orders.
“What?” Do . . . what?
He grunts. “The door . . .”
I offer him my back to hide my face, not wanting him to see the worry that’s bound to be written within my infamously uncensored expression. “Not even your worst criminal would be running around in this,” I manage while taking my sweet time turning the lock on the door handle.
A knife. He has a knife. And it’s no butter knife but a large, wickedly sharp-looking one.
“You live here?”
I flinch. His tone is sharp.
“Yes.”
“You’re Kylie’s sister.”
It’s not a question but a statement. Monotone in nature. Giving nothing away.
Curious, I turn to face him.
“How do you know Kylie?”