Cautious (Tempest #1)

1. Callie

Callie

“Thank you, sweet baby, Jesus,” I mutter as the sign for Tempest finally comes into view. It feels like I’ve been on the road forever, so much so that my left butt cheek has fallen asleep.

I grab the map off the passenger seat, double-checking that I’m heading the right way. After my GPS got me lost in no-man’s land one too many times, I picked up a paper map from a gas station in one of the smaller towns I passed through. I’m not sure I remember seeing paper maps in the large gas stations back home, but I guess smaller towns do things differently. Here’s hoping anyway.

It’s getting dark, and it started raining twenty minutes ago with no let-up in sight. I forgo checking out the sights and head straight to the house I’m renting for the foreseeable future.

If someone had told me a year ago I’d be moving here, effectively running away with my tail between my legs, I’d have laughed at them. I was so sure of my fairy-tale ending that I never saw the plot twist coming.

Anxiety stabs at me, poking holes in the bubble of denial I’ve built around myself, making all the courage I’d shored up begin to leak out. One day, I’ll figure out how to make myself unbreakable. Until then, I ignore the cracks in my psyche and focus on moving forward. If I stop and give in to the feelings of despair and heartbreak, I’ll sink so damn fast you’d think I was standing in quicksand.

I keep my eyes on the road as the wipers fight against the onslaught of rain. When I finally find the address of the house that’s going to be mine while I lick my wounds, I feel a bolt of panic hit me. I grip the wheel, my foot pressing the gas for a second as I battle the urge to keep driving.

It’s only the knowledge that I can’t outrun my own thoughts that stops me. It doesn’t matter if I stay here or keep driving. At some point, I’m going to break. I’d rather do it with a blanket and a bottle of wine than stuck on the freeway listening to Celine Dion’s “All By Myself” like some tragic book heroine.

I pull into the driveway and shut the engine off, wishing it was as easy to shut off my thoughts. Unclipping my belt, I lean over to the glove box and fish out the brown envelope containing the copy of my signed rental agreement and the keys the landlord mailed to me.

Sliding the paperwork out, I take in the photo of the property. The house is one of the smaller ones on the quiet street. It’s a pretty two-bedroom, painted in a pale blue with white shutters and flower-filled window boxes. The front yard is low maintenance. Gray paving slabs lead to the road, and the sides are covered with an array of pebbles, meaning I don’t have to worry about mowing grass. A few flowerpots to tend to is more than enough for me. Three steps lead up to a decked porch that is just big enough for a chair on either side of the door and perfect as a lazy reading spot. Looking through the windshield, the house doesn’t look as majestic through the sheets of rain, but it’s the inside that matters most.

I shove the door open and climb out, using the envelope to cover my head as I glance at the boxes covering the back seat. With a sigh, I slam the door closed before opening the rear door and grabbing the first box I lay my hands on. If I don’t start grabbing things now, I’ll put it off, hoping the rain will stop. By then, it will likely be too dark to see anything. That’s when I’ll start mumbling to myself about being the queen of procrastination. I’m already two steps away from crazy for embarking on this journey without adding talking to myself into the mix.

Having an inner monologue about arguing with myself isn’t doing me any favors either, but as long as I keep the crazy on the inside, it’s all good.

I tuck the box against my chest and close the door with my hip before making a mad dash up the pathway to the covered porch. Unfortunately, I don’t think about the wet steps until my sneakers slip on the second to top step, and I go ass over teakettle.

“Motherfucking, cocksucking asshole,” I curse as I reach out to catch myself on the railing, and the box slips from my hands. Naturally, the box flips over, spilling the contents over the thankfully dry porch decking.

I straighten up with a groan just as a voice speaks up from behind me. “That’s quite the mouth you have on you.”

I shriek, spinning around so fast I lose my footing and end up in a heap on the porch next to my belongings. “Balls,” I mumble, embarrassed. I’m going to have a bruised tailbone tomorrow.

I attempt to climb to my feet gracefully, which is impossible. The stupid steps are still wet, and I’ve just proven I don’t do graceful.

“Here, let me help,” the deep voice that sounds like it’s been dipped in honey and rolled in sex offers.

I lift my head and connect with a hard jaw, making us both groan.

“Ouch. I’m so sorry, are you okay?” I ask, getting my first good look at my would-be white knight. Woah .

Drinking this man in, it becomes clear where the saying ‘tall glass of water’ comes from as I’m all of a sudden feeling parched. Licking my lips, I stare at the muscular man towering over me in ripped black jeans and a wet khaki-green T-shirt that’s plastered to his skin, showing all the dips and grooves of his sculpted physique. I freeze with my mouth open. Speaking of things that are wet –– holy shit. All other coherent thought goes out the window when he smiles, revealing a dimple in each cheek. I manage to hold back a whimper as vaginas around the world weep with appreciation.

Thick, dark honey blond-colored hair that curls a little at the ends falls around a face that belongs on the cover of a magazine. The really dirty, top-shelf kind of magazine . Navy blue eyes as dark as midnight, framed with lashes I instantly find myself jealous of, draw my attention from his full lips that are curved slightly at my blatant appraisal of him.

“You okay?” His amused, deep voice rumbles over my skin, and I’m pretty sure I have a mini orgasm right there and then on the front doorstep of my new house.

Answer him, Callie.

“Erm…”

Use more words.

“Yes?”

Wow. Nailed it.

“Are you sure?” he asks, amusement still present in his voice as he squats next to me and reaches out his hand.

I stare at the hand, then back to his face, and conclude that I must have banged my head when I fell. This isn’t a movie. Hot guys don’t turn up on random women’s doorsteps in the middle of a rainstorm. Unless I’m in a coma, and my subconscious thinks I’m in a Hallmark movie.

I stare at his hand hovering between us and reach out my own, but not to grab his. Oh no, not me. I reach up and poke him in the forehead.

“Definitely real,” I mumble, dumbfounded that I’m not in a coma. I might have preferred that, though I should have figured it out already. I’m the kind of girl who’d end up in a Dateline special rather than a Hallmark movie.

At this point, the mystery guy must realize that I’m not firing on all cylinders. He takes my hand without waiting for me to get my shit together and pulls me to my feet, steadying me when I once again slip.

I was right, thinking he was tall. My five-foot-four frame only just hits his collarbone. Tipping my head up, I see him looking down at me with one side of his mouth hitched up in a grin, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Well, alrighty then. Thank me. I mean, thank you for helping me. And sorry for, you know, clonking you on the chin and mentally undressing you with my eyes.”

“You were mentally undressing me?” His smile is covering his whole face now.

“Wait, what?” I answer, somewhat dazzled.

“And how do I look naked?” he questions as he laughs softly, stepping closer.

“Freaking awesome,” I whisper and feel warmth fill me in all the right places when he throws his head back and laughs.

I stare at him, basking in the moment, feeling oddly proud that I made this beautiful stranger laugh like that, even if it was more at me than with me. I’ll take what I can get.

Ducking my head before he catches me ogling him again, I catch sight of my belongings scattered across my porch. My eyes slowly widen in horror when I realize which box I had been carrying.

“Shit.” I drop to my knees and hurriedly swipe up as much as I can and dump it into the box, hoping most of it goes unnoticed.

He crouches next to me to help, but I wave him off. “It’s okay, seriously, I got this. Thanks though,” I grit out, really needing him to go now.

He doesn’t answer so I glance up and see him staring at the eight-inch, hot-pink, silicone G-spot vibrator in his hand.

“Err…”

Use more words, dammit.

“It’s called the Invader and boasts sixteen different functions, not that I’ve tried them all yet. Oh, and it’s totally waterproof, which is cool. But then that got me thinking: shouldn’t all vibrators be waterproof, given how wet we get?”

USE LESS WORDS. Kill me. Kill me now .

He stares at me before climbing to his feet and walking away without another word, which is just as well. There is only so much humiliation I can stand before I spontaneously combust.

I curse my lack of social skills, but this time under my breath so I don’t attract the attention of any more god-like men. I pick up the box before letting myself inside, kicking the door closed behind me.

The first thing I notice is the smell. It’s stale and musty, probably from having sat empty for the last six months. I can’t complain though. Because it had been vacant so long, the landlady offered it up for a steal. And that suited me and my meager savings just fine.

Sliding the box onto the floor in the hallway, I scowl at it, blaming it entirely for what happened outside. On principle alone, I’m going to unpack that box last so it can sit there and think about its actions.

I head left into the living room and walk over to the grimy windows, twisting the lock and giving them a hard shove to let the fresh air inside. I take a deep breath and grin. It feels so damn good to have my own space again. Turning, I take in the place that’s now mine for however long I stay. The room is painted cream. If I remember correctly, from when I viewed it online, all the rooms are decorated in the same color. A neutral pallet, the landlady had explained. It was light and welcoming, and that’s all that mattered to me.

Two cream leather sofas face each other with a large oak coffee table between them. A tall chrome floor lamp stands in the far left-hand corner of the room, and a large ficus tree sprawls outward from the right. It isn’t much, but it’s far more than I had ten minutes ago. It seemed like serendipity finding a place already furnished and ready for me to move into, and frankly, I’m sick of living out of a motel.

Making my way into the small kitchen, I again open windows to air the place out. The kitchen may be small, but it’s plenty big enough for me. After being stuck in that motel, I will never again take having access to a kitchen for granted.

It’s been remodeled relatively recently, judging by the new beechwood cupboard doors and light gray and black flecked countertops. The floor is the same oak that runs through the rest of the house. The microwave and stove are basic white, as is the fridge-freezer combo. In the corner is a small table with two high-back chairs that will be just right for eating breakfast while the sun streams through the large south-facing window.

The door at the far side of the kitchen catches my eye, so I walk over to it and push it open. It’s a narrow walk space with another door at the far end. I don’t remember this being mentioned in the paperwork, but with shelves lining each side of the space, it will make the perfect pantry. I grin, feeling giddy at the thought of filling it with all my favorite things. A quick peek through the door on the far end shows a compact laundry room with a washer and dryer stacked neatly on top of each other and a sink with a cupboard for storage beneath it. And again, more shelving above it.

I feel something settle inside me as I walk back into the kitchen. I don’t know if it’s relief that I’m done traveling for a while or if it’s because this place already has the potential to feel like home. Whatever the reason, it reinforces my choice to move here, even though sometimes the thought of staying still scares me more than running.

I frown as a knock at the door pulls my attention from my thoughts. I don’t know anyone here yet, and not a single person knows my address, barring the landlady. My car is outside loaded up with my crap, so it seems pointless to hide behind the sofa and pretend I’m not home. Even if that’s what I’d rather do. I shrug and head to the door. It’s not like this meet-and-greet can go any worse than the encounter I just had.

I pull the door open with what I’m hoping resembles more of a friendly smile than a grimace and find a pink cock in my face. I look up into the eyes of the beautiful man, who inadvertently took my vibrator with him when he made his escape and wince.

I open my mouth to apologize, although I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for, but a different set of words fall out instead.

“You know, it’s kind of rude to wave a cock in someone’s face.”

Yep. That just happened. It’s like my own brain hates me.

Snatching the plastic dick from his hand, I slam the door in his face. I bang my head against the wood repeatedly before knocking, making me sigh again.

Why won’t he leave? Doesn’t he realize my mouth is only big enough for one foot?

Pulling the door open again, I paste on a big-ass smile.

Fake it till you make it, Callie.

“Go out with me.” It’s a demand, not a request, his gruff voice making my nipples harden.

Wait, what ?