the wind, the kind that comes rolling through Oklahoma like hell on a high breeze. “But I need you to prove you’re my sister’s friend. Otherwise, I highly suggest you seek shelter somewhere else.”
“‘Never mind the bollocks,’” he mutters in a low voice.
I blink, then burst out laughing. Oh sweet Heaven. He is a friend of Kylie’s. He’s quoted a line from one of her eclectic rock-’n-’roll T-shirts. I open the door wider. “Come on inside.”
Either he doesn’t hear me or he’s ignoring my offer. Hard to say.
It thunders again.
I watch to see if he notices. Or cares.
Trouble, I think, brewing right on my front step, much like the angry gray clouds rolling in.
Will he ignore them, too?
“Suit yourself,” I say. Yet I hesitate as my fingers skim across the door’s cheap lock. Ridiculous ever believing this tiny bit of metal would keep danger at bay. Still I don’t lock the door, leaving my offer open in case common sense kicks in and urges him to come inside and out of harm’s way. Whoever he is, if he doesn’t move soon he’s going to get soaked to the bone, even if he lives close by.
I return to the kitchenette, tidying it. Waiting. Waiting for the storm to pass or kick up in intensity. Waiting for him to move on . . . or inside. Waiting for the oven to chime, which it does exactly twenty minutes later.
If you want moist yet fluffy cupcakes, baking time is half the battle. Tonight is special. Monumental. Not an occasion to be nibbling on overbaked cupcakes that’ll crack your teeth. Moving to the oven, I remove the cupcake tray and place it to cool on the carving board I’ve laid out on the tiny countertop. I’m working on meticulously spearing a second cupcake with a toothpick when the lights flicker. He’s got to be long gone, right?
I’m testing a fourth cupcake, one on the end, when a loud boom echoes across the trailer park. The lights flicker. Then the rain begins. A deluge, from the sound of it.
Not a time to be outside. He had to have run for cover after that last big boom.
Mercifully, the lights stay on as I finish checking the last of the birthday batch. I’m in the process of sucking a tiny cupcake-blob off the end of a toothpick when I hear it.
A light tap on the door.
No way.
Sometimes in life, choices just aren’t part of the plan. When fate interferes and bulldozes right over you. Hadn’t I learned that the hard way after Mama’s cancer diagnosis?
Swallowing back the tiny, tempting treat, I stare at the door. The tin roof rattles beneath the heavy onslaught of rain.
Another tap. Not too aggressive. Yet loud enough to be heard over the wind kicking up outside. It’s going to be a nasty one. But so far, no hail and no sirens or any warning that the rain is a prelude to a twister.
I race over to the door and, dismissing all thoughts about stranger danger, and then tug it open.
Rain hits me hard in the face. It’s coming down in sheets. “Hurry,” I say, stepping aside so he can enter.
“Lock it,” he says, moving past me and into the kitchen. The raw gravel in his tone has me working hard at catching his words.
“Lock the door?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him for a second. His gray hooded sweatshirt is in his hand. Why had he taken it off? His blond hair seems brown, darkened by water with drops rolling off of his sharp chin and onto his white T-shirt. A thoroughly drenched T-shirt that now clings to the curves of his broad, muscled chest. A transparent T-shirt, too—not only can I see his hardened nipples but the pink hue of areola surrounding them.
A blush spreads across my cheeks.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
I look down and am rewarded by the sight of his soaked jeans, which has the same form-hugging effect as his T-shirt. And he’s facing me, so . . .
Oh God.
He’s big. In all the right places—not that I’ve ever visited such a place like his. Or anyone’s, for that matter.
He simply stands there, frozen. Letting me look my fill, his eyes narrowing on me like I’m the hot mess of a hunk soaked to the skin and leaving puddles on the worn linoleum floor. I shudder from the dampness. From the mere size of him, six feet two of corded muscle rolled into one terrifyingly rugged stranger. In one hand, he holds the branch and in the other, a knife.
Oh my God.
“Do it,” he orders.
“What?” Do . . . what?
He grunts. “The door . . .”
I offer him my back to hide my face, not wanting him to see the worry that’s bound to be written within my infamously uncensored expression. “Not even your worst criminal would be running around in this,” I manage while taking my sweet time turning the lock on the door handle.
A knife. He has a knife. And it’s no butter knife but a large, wickedly sharp-looking one.
“You live here?”
I flinch. His tone is sharp.
“Yes.”
“You’re Kylie’s sister.”
It’s not a question but a statement. Monotone in nature. Giving nothing away.
Curious, I turn to face him.
“How do you know Kylie?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes rake over me, from head to toe. From my red-toned peasant blouse, to my cutoff jeans, to the flip-flops on my feet. Without expression. Without the same sexually charged enthusiasm that I’d shown him seconds ago.
So cold. Stone cold.
Suddenly I’m even more unsure of him. Unease settles in as he looks me over. Once. Twice. Until his brisk examination ends and his gaze shifts to the cupcakes stacked neatly in the Tupperware on the countertop.
Escape. “They’re not finished yet. I still have to add the icing. But go ahead and help yourself. I’ll be right back with a towel.”
“Goddamn it,” his cuss follows me out of the room, causing me to lengthen my stride.
What have I done, inviting him in out of the rain?
Also by Michele Mannon
Worth the Fight Series
Sexy contemporary sports romance
Knock Out
Tap Out
Out for The Count
Deadliest Lies Novels
Dark contemporary with a lot of suspense
Rogue
Soon to be released
Mercenary
Hit Man
Player
Liar
Bastard
About the Author
Michele Mannon has been writing romance since her first publication in 2012. A multiple recipient of Romantic Times Magazine’s prestigious TOP PICKS distinction, Michele’s books always pack a punch, leaving readers laughing out loud, or swooning and biting their fingernails at all the appropriate times.
To date, she’s written contemporary sports and spicy, enemies-to-lovers romances with a heavy dose of suspense. Her books have been sold in print, digitally, and on Audible.
Michele lives on a mountain overlooking the Delaware River, where she can be found with a glass of Riesling in her hand and a laptop on her lap. Find her online at: http://www.michelemannon.com
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