1. Fiona #2
“Um, hi,” I stammer, standing up as I brush my hands down my navy wrap dress.
The back of it is soaked. My dress clings to me as much as his shirt hugs him, and I catch my mystery man’s eyes heating as they take me in.
A strange kind of warmth knots in the pit of my stomach as I tuck a strand of black-brown hair behind my ear. I gulp, still staring at my savior.
He has dark hair and rich, tan skin with two patches of grey hair above his temples. The rest of his hair is piled to one side in short, loose curls, one of which slides down across his forehead.
I watch in fascination as he lifts a broad hand to sweep the stray piece of hair back, his grey-blue eyes still studying me.
Is he even real? I’m not sure people this good-looking exist in real life.
Maybe I finally snapped after the last horrendous fifteen months.
The geyser was the last straw. Something in Bertha’s engine fumes has turned my brain to mush. I’ve finally lost my marbles.
“I’m Grant.” His rich, deep voice sends a tremor shivering down my spine. It sounds real enough.
I barely manage to croak out a response. “Fiona.”
His lips curl into a smile, as if the sound of my name pleases him. A curl of heat beads in the pit of my stomach and I place a hand over the offending spot. I feel… I’m not…
I haven’t felt this in a long time.
Grant lifts a hand toward me, and I suck a breath through my teeth as he reaches around the back of my neck. As I close my eyes, I imagine him pulling me close, crushing me against that glorious chest of his, and taking my lips in his.
A man like him would take control. I can sense it in the electricity zinging between us. He’d pin me to a wall and show me what I’ve been missing for the past twenty years. He’d light up every nerve ending in my body and be as rough, as commanding, as demanding as he’d need to be.
And I would melt like freaking butter on his tongue. God, his tongue—I wish I could melt on it. Preferably when his hands grip me tight and I feel the raw power coiling in his huge body. Wet and weirdly emotional , huh. Yup, still accurate.
But Grant’s touch is feather-light when the pads of his fingers brush across the back of my neck. They’re calloused, rough. Not at all like John’s doughy, soft hands were when he palmed my skin back in the days when we actually touched each other.
Grant’s skin may be rough, but his touch is soft. A silent gasp escapes my lips before I can stop myself, heat flooding between my legs, spreading through my core, and all the way up to the tips of my ears.
This is… Oh, no. Is this menopause? Did I just have my first hot flash under a geyser in the middle of a parking lot?
But when I open my eyes, Grant’s expression is soft. “You’re bleeding,” he says, almost to himself. Before I can stop him, he hands me the umbrella, then grabs the edge of his shirt and rips off a strip.
The man rips his freaking shirt apart and uses it to dab at my admittedly very minor wound.
I might faint.
This is a fever dream. This isn’t real life. It can’t be.
I stare at the strip of skin now exposed by the rip, just above the waistband of Grant’s pants. His stomach is hard, and the unholy desire to run my tongue over that bit of flesh bubbles through me without warning.
“Fiona!” Simone’s voice cuts through the lust fogging my mind. My best friend runs over, shielding her face with her hands as she laughs. “Can you believe it? I think it’s a sign.”
“Of what? Poor municipal plumbing?”
Grant lets out a chuckle at my words, and the desire to make him laugh again overwhelms me. I steal a glance at him as Simone walks up to me, her eyes widening as she takes in the specimen standing next to me.
“Well, hello there, handsome. I’m Simone.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me, then drops into a curtsy in front of Grant.
A freaking curtsy, as if the man is the King of England.
My best friend is a maniac.
“Grant,” he replies with a smile, not at all bothered by the fact that Simone is insane.
“I’d better go check on the twins. They’ve been having trouble with the hotel maintenance lately, and I’m sure they could use a hand.
” I make to give him the umbrella, but he shakes his head.
“Keep it. I don’t mind getting wet.” A flash crosses his eyes as his gaze drops to my lips then away, so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
Call me the Wicked Witch of the West, because I’m about to melt right where I stand.
Simone squeals as she hooks her arm through mine, and we watch Grant stride around the geyser, his white shirt soaking through and clinging to every muscle in his back. “He is delicious . It’s definitely a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“That this vacation is exactly what you needed.”
“He’s just a friendly local.”
“I hope he’s friendly,” Simone answers, the word sounding very different when she says it.
I shake my head, laughing, and nod to the hotel. “Should we go find out what’s going on?”
“Yeah, but first let me grab some tissues. I don’t want to drool all over the hotel floor if I’m going to be in the same room as that friendly local .”
Rolling my eyes, I fight the smile off my face and jerk my head toward the green-and-white awning, setting off in the same direction as Grant went as if there’s a tether pulling me toward him.
Maybe Simone’s right. Maybe this vacation was a good idea, after all…
Fiona is only in town for a vacation, until a flooded hotel room sends her to look for alternative housing arrangements...with the town's hunky handyman.
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