Grant didn’t have much of anything except experience as a journeyman electrician and a fabulous body I’d hoped he’d use to help me paint walls and refinish floors.
In the six weeks we’d been there, he’d painted walls. Three of them. Then he’d spent a lot of time “getting to know the locals” in order to “get referrals.”
This translated into locating drinking, hunting, and fishing buddies.
“You aren’t gettin’ those microwaves,” he informed me.
“I am,” I returned. “And you’re gonna install them. After, of course, I refinish the cabinets and you install the new countertops.”
His face twisted in a way I’d never seen before. It was also a way I didn’t much like.
“I’m not doin’ shit with somethin’ I didn’t agree to buyin’.”
“Since it’s not your money, it isn’t for you to agree or disagree,” I shot back nastily.
His face twisted further and I so didn’t like the way it twisted that I leaned away from him.
“You fuckin’ bitch,” he clipped, his voice rising.
I felt my eyes widen as my heart twisted at his words. Words no one in my life had ever said to me, especially not Grant.
There was no way I could stop the hurt that sent through me. Hurt so bad, I only had it in me to whisper, “Grant.”
“I knew you’d fuckin’ throw that in my face eventually and you didn’t waste time. We been here weeks, you’re throwin’ that shit in my face.”
“I don’t think you’re listening to me,” I pointed out carefully, because he was right. What I said was a low blow. I knew he didn’t have a load of money. He’d been up front about that.
Then again, he’d been up front about it but told me he’d contribute by helping with the cabins.
Still, I shouldn’t have said what I said. And now I needed to calm us both down and fight my way back to the high road.
“I’m listenin’ to you,” he shot back, his voice still raised. “Seems all I do is fuckin’ listen to you. Hotshot college grad whose daddy thinks she shits roses. Babe, you got another thing comin’, you think I’m gonna crawl up your ass and treat you like a fuckin’ princess like that fuckin’ father of yours.”
I did more staring at my handsome, thoughtful, supportive boyfriend thinking where on earth did that come from?
I didn’t get the chance to ask. There was a knock on the door, and as we were fighting in the foyer, Grant close to the door with his back to it, he turned, grabbed the knob, and yanked it open.
“What?” he barked, angrily and unwelcomingly.
But I saw the man standing in the doorway and I took an automatic step back.
I didn’t do this because he was handsome and handsome men freaked me way the heck out.
Good-looking guys like Grant, no. Grant could turn heads. Even though he wasn’t tall, with his lean, defined body, shock of messy dark blond hair and clear blue eyes, he got more than his share of attention.
But Grant wasn’t like the guy at the door.
The guy at the door wasn’t good-looking. The guy at the door was handsome. Amazingly. Tall. Dark-haired. Rugged-featured. His large frame built tough and solid.
He looked like the model a cologne company would choose when they decided to break in to the difficult market of trying to convince hardcore bikers they should smell good.
But I didn’t take a step back because of that.
I did it because he was terrifying.
Utterly.
Huge. Dark. His face a cold, emotionlessness mask. His chill swept through the foyer, causing a shiver to glide over my skin even though it was a sunny day in August, warm, and we had no air conditioning.