Chapter Two
Griffin
There she is again. Sitting on that damn stool while painting. I should call Bob and break his neck for turning his damn cabin into an Airbnb while he and his wife travel around in some RV. I don’t know why I ever agreed to help him flip it between customers. But I went from having the nicest, quietest neighbors to the most annoying damn people from one side of the country to the next. They stay here for a few nights at a time, claim they’ve gotten to experience the rugged outdoors, and then leave. Trashing the place in the process.
At least I don’t mind her taste in music, but Jesus. Does she have to sit right there and paint all damn day? She’s a fucking distraction, and I have work that needs to get done. Yesterday was bad enough.
Her tawny curls blowing back and forth in the breeze. The way she sat on that stool, her back arched as she leaned forward to paint on the canvas. The sun beams bouncing off her perfect complexion and making my damn mouth water.
But fuck! Today she sits in nothing but a white shirt hanging just above her dark thighs. I can’t even enjoy my cup of coffee on the porch without staring at her like some damn pervert. She’s got a body men like me only dream about touching, thick curves to grab on to in the throes of passion. Caramel skin that fucking glows when the sun hits it just right.
I got pissed off about it yesterday and came out to chop some wood, hoping it would dispel at least a little of this anger. Or, at the very least, it would upset her enough to take her painting inside where I can’t see her. But no such luck. She sat out here just as long as I did.
It’s been too fucking long since I’ve touched a woman to have a little temptress like that only a hundred yards away from me. My dick’s gotta be mad at me for beating it the way I did last night while thinking of her.
Now here I am chopping this damn wood again, and not because I’m pissed at her fucking show as a naked artist. But because there’s supposed to be a storm tonight, and I want to make sure I’ve got enough wood stored somewhere dry. Splitting wet wood is not what I want to spend my time on tomorrow.
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The day goes on, and I’ve managed to split the majority of the wood, fix the rotted boards on my back deck, and repair the framing on my picture window. I’ve been working on remodeling this house for the last five years, and I’m not sure I’ll want to sell it when I’m done like I’d planned.
Popping the top off a beer, I lean against the railing, looking at the lake. The sun is hiding behind the clouds, preparing for the storm we’re about to have, and I can’t help but wonder if little Miss Picasso is prepared for the rain. I turn my head toward the area I’ve been avoiding all day. Willing my gaze not to wander and begging my eyes to focus on the task at hand.
There she sits, practically naked, smearing the paint on her canvas with her fingers. The first drop of rain falls, landing on my white-as-snow knuckles from gripping the railing.
“Down, boy,” I mumble to my cock before looking back at her.
Her head tipped to the sky looks like a painting all in itself. I can’t really see her details—with the sky darkening—but her silhouette is breathtaking. She grabs her canvas and the rolling cart and rushes down the dock toward the house.
I turn my back, walk inside, and slam the door closed behind me. The fire is already going, and I’ve picked a great fucking read to keep me occupied for the rest of the night. I make myself comfortable on the sofa, kicking my shoes off and cracking my book open.
I’m five chapters into this thriller, and it’s already got me hooked. The rain patters against my windows and the roof of my cabin. A knock sounds on my door, interrupting my focus, and I look at the dark wood with my brows pinched, waiting to see if I heard what I thought I did. My gaze moves back to the pages of my book before it sounds again, harder.
“Hello,” a panicked voice calls from the other side.
I jump up, shoving my boots to the side before walking toward the door and opening it. The rain beats down behind her, the sky covered in grays and blues as she stands in front of me soaking wet.
“What are you doing?” I question, looking her up and down. An oversized white button-up is clutched across her chest, covering most of her. Her knuckles look light and slightly upset holding the material as tightly as she can. Her legs are exposed, her hair that was gathered in a bun is now wet, with stray hairs sticking to her face. And water drips on her bare toes, painted black, droplets clinging to her skin.
“I was painting.”
Yeah, I fucking know.
“And it started raining, so I brought my canvas inside, but the power is out.”
I sigh, knowing I should have gotten that backup generator last weekend. I figured it would be fine to wait, but obviously not. I’m working on updating the electrical, and some of the wires are so damn old that it’s like rewiring paper. It’s gonna trip up from time to time until it’s completely updated.
“The owner had said if I had any issues to ask the man next door. I assume that’s you.”
“I guess that’s me, yeah,” I respond, still mentally kicking myself.
She gives me a little side-eye. “Well, can you help me or not?”
I smirk, her attitude making me that much more intrigued by her. Pulling in a deep breath, I step back. “I can. Why don’t you come inside and get”—my gaze drifts down her body—“dry.”
She looks inside my place as if she’d find skin pinned to the wall before landing on me again, a brow raised as I wait for her next move. She offers a polite smile before stepping inside. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” I nod, shutting the door behind her as she moves further inside, wrapping her arms around her body.
I step into my kitchen and grab the two flashlights from the junk drawer, then set them on the counter in case she wants to snatch one and run.
Stepping into my bedroom to grab her a towel from the bathroom and some clean clothes, a pair of my sweatpants and a T-shirt. When I step out of my room, she’s still standing in the same place, shivering, but staring around my spacious living room.
“Not that appealing to an artist, I assume.”
Her head snaps my way with dipped brows that make her light eyes squint into the shape of almonds.
“I actually like that painting right there.” She points to the canvas of splattered paint that Bob’s three-year-old granddaughter painted two summers ago. But as her arm lifts toward the painting, I can’t help but notice the dark puckered nipple showing through her soaked shirt.
I hold the clothes out to her, turning my head to the painting and avoiding her chest. “Here. Bathroom’s through my room.” I nod in the direction behind me.
She’s quick to grab the clothes, her fingers brushing against mine and sending a stream of arousal from my hand to my crotch. She hurries past me with a mumbled “thanks” before disappearing.
“She’s just a pretty girl,” I murmur to my cock straining behind the zipper.