Chapter 9
I Need her Mad
MITCHELL
Iopened the door as Winona was coming up the steps.
For a moment, I couldn’t think. I was sure I’d built her up in my mind over the past week.
But she was just as appealing as I remembered.
Except today, she was in regular clothes, which made things much worse.
Her hair hung in loose curls around her shoulders.
The soft red sweater she wore clung to the curves above her waist, her faded jeans to the ones below.
She came to a stop when she saw me. “Mr. Harrington.” She folded her arms. Her left hip cocked just slightly, tempting my eyes downward. I resisted with extreme effort.
“Look at you, answering your door like a peasant."
She was punchy, like she’d imbibed some liquid courage. Had she been on a date? Was that what I’d interrupted? She was wearing lipstick. Heels, too.
I kept my eyes on hers, ignoring the unwelcome surge of jealous heat that rippled through me. “Ms. Chalmers. Thank you for coming.”
She blinked, like she’d expected me to throw a barb. Finally, she lifted her brows. “Did you want me to look at this pipe, or...?”
Right. I was in the way.
She breezed past me in a cloud of something faintly floral. “So, what seems to be the issue this time? And did Miller finish the bathroom?”
I closed the door, forcing myself to exhale her scent.
But when I turned, I had to grit my jaw. Her back was to me, and fuck, her ass looked incredible in those jeans. Round and plush and perfect. I had the obscene thought that I could palm both cheeks perfectly with my hands, like a basketball. The lower part of my body heated at the thought.
The cerebral part shouted The fuck is wrong with you?
I bit my cheek hard, drawing pain to clear my dirty mind, and looked sharply away.
This was not why she was here.
I tried hard to recollect what she’d just asked. Plumbing. Miller. Bathroom. I didn’t actually know if the repair she’d started had been completed. I never used that bathroom. Maybe I remembered a van that wasn’t hers showing up sometime midweek? Sal must have taken care of it.
“The bathroom’s fine,” I said. “I think.” It probably was. But maybe she could stay to check that too. “The new issue is in the kitchen.”
Winona gave me a strange look. Then she pressed her hand against the strip of wall between the painting and the corner and slipped out of her heels.
I groaned inwardly at the sight, unable to keep from picturing her bracing and looking down for other reasons.
I managed to school my expression just as she looked up again.
Losing the shoes had made her drop several inches in height. I felt like a beast standing over her, like I could accidentally bruise her just by standing here.
I took a step back. But then I was distracted by the intimacy of seeing her bare feet on my concrete floor, the delicate pink-painted toenails, the smooth points of her ankles.
I’m not a foot guy. Am I a fucking foot guy?
I wanted to smack myself. I wasn’t like this. I didn’t call women for nefarious purposes. I didn’t need to. I also didn’t get distracted by them. I had laser-sharp focus. It was what had gotten me to where I was. It was also what I couldn’t seem to find here; not with my book, and not with her.
“This way,” I snarled, moving past her. I pressed my eyes closed at the fresh noseful of that sweet floral scent, opening them again so I didn’t take a header down the stairs to the main room.
But when I reached the kitchen, I drew to a halt. I’d been so hung up on getting her here, I hadn’t thought about what she might think when she saw the disaster under the sink. What if she ran screaming? Why the fuck hadn’t I just unscrewed something like a normal fucking person?
I breathed through my nostrils, turning around and meeting her eyes. There was no avoiding it now.
“There,” I said, pointing to the cabinet.
Winona stopped at the threshold of the room, at the end of the island.
She glanced at the cabinet, but didn’t move to open it.
Instead, she folded her arms again, her eyes narrowing like she was a cop trying to suss me out.
A dark irritation flooded over me. I knew it was there to mask the preview of my embarrassment. “Do you need me to open the cupboard for you?” I asked.
A beat passed.
“No, b’y,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I’m just wondering if I open that door, if I’m actually going to see something wrong.”
“I—”
“Because you seem like the type of man who has ulterior motives.”
That irritation flared more. She’d seen right through me, of course. She’d be within her rights to walk right out. Hell, to run screaming.
But she wasn’t running. She didn't think I was a creep, though she should have, given the thoughts I kept thinking every time I looked at her.
Something else had brought her here. The challenge, maybe.
Or curiosity. It certainly wasn’t the money, she’d made that clear.
That was refreshing as fuck, if not a little debilitating.
I’d gotten so used to greasing hinges with money, it was a workout to have to use my fucking brain again to get things done.But it didn't matter why she'd come.
I told my brain to relax and just be glad she was here.
I took a step toward her. She stiffened. I held my hands up. Then I pointed my finger at an upper cabinet to indicate I was heading for that and not her.
She softened just slightly.
For the briefest moment, some dark and twisted part of me wondered what she’d do if I bypassed the cabinet.
If I did go up to her, taking her by those ample hips, and tell her I did have another reason to call her over here.
She’d take in a breath, her pupils broadening, and I’d take that as my sign to knock a knee between her legs.
To lift a hand to her jaw and a thumb to that thick bottom lip.
Then I’d growl at her like a fucking animal. You’re staying here now.
Winona was waiting. And none of that was what I needed her for. But my dick didn’t get the memo. It stiffened in the jeans I’d thrown on.
I turned to the cabinet. Not the lower one, but a top one next to her head. I jerked the door open, pulling down the Laphroaig. It wasn’t my best bottle, but I didn’t need the best right now. I’d drink kerosene if I thought it might help me get my head on straight.
I held the whiskey up in her direction.
Winona glowered at me.
I shrugged. “Your loss.”
My heart beat a rhythm against my ribs like a marching band’s leading drummer.
The cork wouldn’t give. Frustrated, I brought it to my teeth, jerking the bottle down so the top released with a loud pop.
I was deeply tempted to bring the bottle straight to my lips, but I reached into another cupboard for a glass, like a fucking gentleman.
I set it on the counter with a clink, spitting the top into the sink basin.
If Winona was disgusted by me, she didn’t show it now. She was prepared for me this time.
Once more, she folded her arms. “You never answered my question.” Her tone was level, like she was used to dealing with assholes. I'm sure she was, in her field. “Is there really a problem?”
I poured the amber liquid into the glass. It glugged musically. “Yes, Ms. Chalmers, there’s a problem.” I took a long swig, stalling. I could sense her irritation. It felt like the warm glow of a fire. It matched the heat of the liquor rolling down my throat. It set off a spark inside of me.
And a realization.
That was it. I needed to get us mad. That’s what worked last time. I was pissed, she was pissed, and magic happened on the page. She didn’t have to stick around. She just had to get mad at me.
The concept made me feel like an asshole. Mostly because I knew I’d go through with it.
“Mr. Harring—”
“Newfoundland,” I said.
Rudely interrupting was a good start, though it felt like acid on my tongue.
“What?”
I picked up the bottle again. “‘You got me drove. Lodge it down.’ You’re from Newfoundland, right?”
She said nothing, but her cheeks flushed. I was right. It was either that or Ireland, but she didn’t otherwise have an accent. “I looked it up,” I said. “Right after you left last time. After I put some clothes on.”
Her cheeks flushed deeper. Was it working? Or was it the mention of me undressed?
You cocky fuck. Apparently, I couldn’t scrape my mind out of the gutter tonight.
“I got dressed for you this time,” I said, the buzz of the liquor loosening my tongue.
I held my arms wide, bottle still in one hand, like I was showing off some kind of fashionable outfit, when really it was a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, both I’m pretty sure were nice at one point.
But now the jeans were frayed, the shirt torn to shit, no better than a dishrag.
"Better?" I asked.
“Not really. When’s the last time you showered?”
I’d showered this morning after several hours in the pool, and several more of failed writing.
But let her think I was filthy. I was, in other ways.
"Newfoundland,” I recited from memory, as I topped up my glass. “A geographically significant island off the East Coast of Canada, Newfoundland considers itself distinct from the rest of Canada. The population boasts its own lexicon.”
She shifted so her right hip cocked this time. It was mesmerizing, the softness of her body. I needed to be careful lest I start staring like a dog.
“Did you study that?” she asked, sounding a little impressed. Or disturbed.
“I have a good memory.” Too good. I lifted the glass to my lips, taking a long pull of whiskey.
Winona set her purse down on the counter, bringing her hands up to her hair.
Despite the liquid I’d just swallowed, my mouth went instantly dry. What the fuck was she doing?
But she was just piling the platinum strands on top of her head, twisting them into a knot.
“Well, good job, Sherlock.” Finished with her hair, she lowered her hands to her hips, tapping a fingertip on the soft convex curve next to her hipbone.
I deserved a medal for keeping my eyes on hers.