It's Never too Late - By Tara Taylor Quinn Page 0,106

there was his body—nothing cold there, either. Broad shoulders, a chest Tarzan would be proud of, flat belly, lean hips. All wrapped up in faded jeans and a moss-green sweater that was the perfect foil for his coloring.

“Hey,” he said in an easy baritone. “I’m Oliver Garrett. I moved in next door.” He gestured toward the house on the other side of the fence. “Wanted to give you a heads-up in case you saw me moving around and thought I was a burglar or something.”

He smiled, so warm and vibrant and alive it was almost offensive. His gaze slid down her face, scanning her body in a polite but thoroughly male assessment. She tightened her grip on the towel, glad it was draped over her shoulders and arms. Managing a stranger’s shock then polite sympathy once he got an eyeful of the impressive scars on her left arm was not part of her plan for her morning.

“Mackenzie Williams,” she said briskly, offering him her hand.

They shook briefly, his much bigger hand dwarfing hers. She made a point of keeping her grip firm and looking him in the eye, a habit she’d acquired early in her career and one that had always alerted her about what kind of man she was dealing with.

Oliver Garrett held her eye and didn’t seem surprised by the firmness of her grip. More importantly, he didn’t try to grind her hand into dust with his superior strength. Both marks in his favor.

“I was hoping you could give me some guidance on where the best place is to grab supplies and whatnot,” he said.

He hadn’t shaved for a few days and his whiskers glinted in the sunlight, a mixture of dark brown, bronze and gold.

She tore her gaze away and concentrated on his question. “There aren’t many shops to choose from in town. One of everything, pretty much, which takes out the guesswork.”

Her legs were starting to tremble. She needed a protein drink and a shower and half an hour on her bed. She took a step backward to signal that she didn’t intend to stand on the doorstep chitchatting with him, golden stubble or no golden stubble.

“Figured that would be the case. It’s been years since I was here. But it doesn’t look as though much has changed.”

Nausea rolled through her, tightening her stomach and making her mouth water. She gripped the door frame. Any second now she was going to either throw up or wind up on her ass, and she wasn’t about to do either in front of a complete stranger.

“Listen, I have to go.” It came out more tersely than she’d intended, but there wasn’t much she could do about that.

He looked a little shocked, but before he could say anything, a long, furry body rushed past her and onto the porch. For the first time she registered that he had a dog, too—a miniature schnauzer by the look of her. A miniature schnauzer that Mr. Smith was very pleased to meet, judging by all the tail-wagging and bottom-sniffing that was going on.

“Smitty. Inside,” she said sharply.

“It’s okay. He’s just saying hello, aren’t you, mate?” Oliver smiled indulgently and bent to scratch Mr. Smith between the shoulder blades.

Her stomach rolled again. She swallowed and leaned forward to grab her dog’s collar. He was so involved with his new friend that she had to use considerable strength to yank him into the house, the effort only increasing the nausea burning at the back of her throat.

“I don’t have time for this.”

She wasn’t sure who she was talking to—her new neighbor, her shaking body, her overeager dog. It didn’t matter. The most important thing was that she was about to throw up.

One hand restraining Mr. Smith, she took a step backward and shut the door. In the split second before it cut her new neighbor from view, she saw his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline with surprise. One hand pressed to her mouth, she raced to the bathroom. She almost made it, the spasms hitting as she stepped over the threshold. Bracing her hands on her knees, her stomach released its contents all over the tiled floor.

For long moments afterward, she remained where she was, knees weak, a sour taste in her mouth. An emphatic reminder that her injured body had its limits. Finally she got down on her hands and knees and cleaned up.

At least she hadn’t thrown up on Mr. Sunshine. There was that small mercy to be grateful for. No doubt he