Oh, Keep Your Shirt On - Michelle Pennington Page 0,54
surely should have been long done, he knocked on my door thirty seconds after I’d stripped out of my work clothes.
I stared at myself in the mirror, taking in my tired eyes, the hair falling out of my bun, and vague remnants of makeup on my face. Perfect.
“Krista, I’m here to change your air filter.”
And then I remembered I also had nothing on but the black bralette Angela had given me and a pair of matching panties. There was no way he’d come into my bedroom. I didn’t know where the air filter went, but I knew it wasn’t in here. Still, I dove into a pair of leggings and a T-shirt before going out to yell at him.
I met him coming up the stairs just as I was about to go down. “You did this on purpose.”
He smiled in his chill, friendly way. “Your shirt is inside out.”
Looking down, I saw he was right. Curses. “Why did you come so late?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“Oh, I just didn’t get around to it till now.” He shrugged and headed into the second bedroom where my art studio was, flicking on the light switch as he went through the door. Then he froze, holding the air filter out like a shield. “Whoa. That is…”
“Anger. That’s what it is. And it’s all your fault.”
He walked closer and studied my latest painting. “If you say so, but I’m telling you, that mess of red and black looks a lot more like bottled-up passion than anger.”
“It does not. I have zero bottled-up passion. Now, didn’t you come here to change the air filter? Why don’t you get on with it?”
He shrugged and headed over to a panel I’d never noticed on the wall over the closet door. He opened it but paused. “You know, I don’t want to get this shirt dirty.”
He reached behind his back like guys do to take their shirts off. The first few inches of bare abs made me catch my breath—somehow watching him take off his shirt was even sexier than just seeing him without it—but I finally manage to protest. “Stop. Don’t you dare.”
But he only grinned and pulled it the rest of the way off. “You don’t have to stay in here, you know. Or maybe you want to.”
When I glared at him, he just laughed and reached up to get to work, so I swung around and left. As I fled downstairs into the dark hall and living room, I wondered why Damien had always been so immune to my mean looks. It wasn’t fair. I had no other weapons.
I turned on the light over the sink and slammed around, opening cabinets, hoping Damien would hear and decide to sneak back out again rather than face my wrath. Doubting it would work, however, I consoled myself by putting my kettle on the stove and dropping a chamomile teabag into a mug. The water had just begun to simmer when Damien came back downstairs with his shirt tossed over his shoulder. He headed for the front door with the old filter in hand, and for several blessed moments, I thought I was safe.
But a second later, I felt a pang of disappointment. Just because I wanted to lay into him for annoying me so much. Not because I missed him.
Definitely not that.
My kettle whistled, so I turned to take it off the burner. At that moment, when my back was to the door, I heard him come in again.
I smiled.
Such a traitorous, frustrating reaction, but at least—thank the heavens—he hadn’t seen it. I bit my bottom lip and schooled my features back into a sullen expression as I poured the hot water into my mug.
“Well, you’re all taken care of,” Damien said, coming up behind me. “You’ll have lots of nice clean air now until I need to change the filter again in two months.”
The last thing I needed to do was stand around alone with Damien in a dimly lit room. Not looking up at him, mostly because I was afraid to, I asked, “Is this how you take care of your other tenants?”
He turned, leaning back against the counter and getting way too comfortable. “Nope. You get special treatment.”
My eyes flashed to his. “I didn’t ask for it.”
“Well, I’d be an old man ready for my grave if I waited for you to ask for it. Besides, you can’t get too mad at me when I’m doing you another favor tomorrow.”
I