Chapter 3

Saturday 7.22am

Evelyn

My head is pounding as I open my eyes to grey light pouring through the crack in my drapes. I groan as fragmented memories flitter through my hangover. I ease the covers back, trying to minimize the spinning as I take a sip from my water bottle, my entire body stiff and sore from dragging Connor into my house.

I stagger to the bathroom, ready to douse myself in hot water when I hear music over the sound of the rain. I rub at my temples as the scent of coffee, bacon frying, and toast greets me. I’m so shocked by the unaccustomed noise and smells coming from the kitchen; my legs are rooted to the carpet in the hallway.

Connor. He’s cooking. In my kitchen. Without my permission.

I ready a frown and pick my feet up as I cross the living room with the fire burning brightly as though he’s kept an eye on it all night, and head into the kitchen. I open my mouth to spew a reprimand, but every last word disappears as I see him pouring a cup of coffee from the coffee percolator.

His back is to me, and my heart jolts to my throat, and for a minute I think it’s Scott standing in my kitchen. The fact that Scott’s t-shirt fits snug against Connor’s more muscled torso so I can see every contour makes his presence here and my visceral reaction to him a billion times more confusing.

He’s humming along to the radio on my cell phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he isn’t invading my space and throwing my carefully ordered weekend into disarray. I swallow, hangover quickly being replaced with something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something I’m not sure I’m ready to feel again, especially not for a man who despite nearly bleeding to death looks healthy and strong enough to run with the bulls in Pamplona. My legs fold from under me, I plonk into the seat at the table that never gets used anymore and take a sip of what I think may be the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life.

He leans against the counter and crosses his arms against his brawny chest. “Morning, gorgeous. Hope you like your coffee hot and strong.”

I nearly snort the coffee out of my nose. Gorgeous? “How did you know how I take it?”

I regret the words the second they are out of my mouth. I know he’s going to use it as a double entendre, and sure enough, he sends me a cheeky grin. “I can figure out how most women like to take it. It’s a gift.” He chuckles so much at his own joke, and despite how flustered I’m starting to feel around him, I smile into my black coffee.

He plonks his mug down, splashing some of the creamy liquid over the table top. “Actually, I didn’t know for sure. You strike me as an all-or-nothing kind of woman, so I made it at opposite ends of the spectrum.” My blush only grows as he grins at me. “I, for example, prefer it hot, creamy, and sweet.” He stares so boldly at me as he drinks his coffee and I think my skin is about to ignite.

“If I’d known you were such a flirt, I may not have saved your life,” I mumble into my coffee.

He chuckles, seemingly unperturbed as he turns back to the eggs he’s frying. “How can I not flirt with you? Have you looked in the mirror?”

My lips twitch despite my conflicted emotions at his continued presence and seemingly limitless confidence. I don’t know if his ego is overblown, or whether he’s hamming it up, but either way, I’m not sure I want to find out.

“Connor, I’m not really a morning person. Can you turn the radio off, please? And since I can’t charge my phone, we should be conserving the battery.”

His eyebrows rise as he switches the gas stove off, then he hands me my phone so I can lower the volume of the local radio station. “I was listening out for weather details.” All the humor leaves his face as he dishes up eggs, bacon and buttered toast triangles on the side. He slides a plate in front of me and sits opposite me in Scott’s chair.

I wince at the mess he’s made in the kitchen, at how he’s sitting where he shouldn’t, and stare at the food before me. Tears start to brew in my eyes as Connor wolfs down his food as though afraid someone is going to take it away.

His eyes dart to me, and he pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. “Don’t you like bacon and eggs?” He throws his fork down and starts to rise. “I can make pancakes or French toast. It’s the least I can do.”

I grab his forearm, unprepared for how sinewy he feels, how warm his skin is. I choke back the tears and shake my head. “I don’t really eat breakfast at the table.”

I know I’m not making sense, and I doubt he’ll understand even if I told him, but he doesn’t crack a joke, just sits slowly and pushes my coffee closer to me. “Just eat your coffee then.” It’s such a ridiculous statement that I laugh. His eyebrows rise as he shovels in more food. I lower my gaze back to my perfect cup of coffee and listen to the radio announcer as the 7.30 am news program starts. Connor’s eyes flick to my phone as we catch the beginning of a news item.

In breaking news, local law enforcement are warning that a dangerous criminal…

He grabs my phone and turns the sound down low and grins. “Eh. Who wants the news, right? All doom and gloom.” I shrug and pick at my toast and sip my coffee as the rain batters the cottage. He drags my plate towards him, snagging the bacon I’ve rejected. “What do you normally do on a Saturday morning?”

I frown at him, wondering why he’s interested. Or maybe he isn’t? Maybe he’s just making polite conversation?

“I don’t do a whole lot. Clean mostly. Fix things that need fixing. Go for a run. Catch up on paperwork. I’m pretty boring, really.”

One of his eyebrows rise. “I highly doubt that.” His eyes run the length of me, pausing at the gap where my robe doesn’t quite meet, exposing the tops of my breasts. He doesn’t react when I abruptly yank my robe closed and glare at him for being so obvious.

For the strangest reason, I’m acutely aware my heart is speeding, and my palms are growing clammy. I sip my coffee and try not to look at him as he finishes up my bacon. Relief spills through me when the weather comes on, and I can break the tension between us with noise. I turn the volume up as the weather reporter gives his update.

Sorry folks. Looks like this one is staying for the entire weekend. The Sheriff’s department are urging residents to stay indoors and to stay off the roads unless necessary. We've got massive power outages, trees down and the bridge looks set to be washed out. And a reminder, it’s unlikely he’s made it all the way out here, but don’t…

I turn the station off and check for messages before I look across at Connor.

He’s staring at my phone and tapping his finger on the table, jaw working furiously. “Looks like I’m stuck here for the weekend.” His eyes shift to mine, and I can’t breathe for the thoughts creeping in. My heart is thrashing around my chest, skin rising as he reaches across and starts stroking the top of my fingers. “Is that okay? If I stay?”

It’s so intimate, I yank my hand away and nod too violently. Without looking at him, I shove back from the table and don’t say a word as I near run to the safety of the bathroom. Hot tears are stinging my eyes as I close the door. I turn the water on and try not to cry as unwelcome thoughts pervade my mind.

He shouldn’t be here. He should have gone by now. He shouldn’t be in my kitchen with his muscles and his smile and his coffee and his tattoos and his eyes… oh shit. I groan at myself. I have never been the type of girl to fall in lust with a man. Never. It’s not in my nature. It’s something that I’ve never understood. I can’t sleep with a man unless I have a connection with him.

What kind of connection can I have with Connor? Yes, I saved his life, but I know next to nothing about him. Even contemplating the very idea of wanting him is so astronomically out of character for me. After grieving Scott’s absence for three years, it feels wrong to even think about another man.

Connor could never replace Scott. No one can. But is it about replacing? Or moving on, like Rosie said?

I’m still torn when I rub my aching body dry and pull my robe tight. I furiously brush my teeth and scowl at the wanton woman in the mirror who shouldn’t even be thinking about sullying the memory of the love of her life. I spit the toothpaste into the basin and turn on the faucet with so much force, the water splashes out over my robe.

Why am I even thinking about this? What is wrong with me? He’s just a guest. A temporary guest. I just have to get through the next few days. Once he’s gone, everything can go back to the way it was.

I pull my shoulders back and step out into the hallway, heart skittering as I make sure he’s not hanging around. When I hear him at the other end of the house, I slip back into my room and make sure I look as unappealing as possible. I grab the baggiest clothes I own and twist my hair into a knot. Whatever happens, I cannot fall for a man like Connor.

He’s waiting in the kitchen when I stomp back inside, hands in the sink, washing the dishes like he belongs here. I clear my throat and pick up the coffee I abandoned, feigning disinterest as he turns and smiles at me. My food is still waiting for me, stone cold, congealing on the plate, so I abandon my coffee and head to the garbage pail. He raises his eyebrows at me but doesn’t say a word as I scrape the food into the garbage.

I hand him the plate and try to make my voice calm and level. “I think we need to come up with some ground rules since we’re stuck here together.” He carries on washing the dishes, scrubbing at a frying pan, all with the faintest of smirks on his face. I count off the rules using my fingers like he’s a child. “One: stop flirting. Two: stop taking my cell phone. Three: stop flirting.”

He holds up his sudsy hands. “I’ll try to quit flirting. It’ll be the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do, but if that’s what you want, okay.”

I frown at him and shift so I can grab a towel so I can start drying. “It’s what I want.” My arm brushes against his and all the hairs on my body stand to attention. A flush creeps over my cheeks as I position myself as far away from him as possible.

He’s not looking at me, concentrating on washing the dishes he created, but his posture is a little defeated like he’s unsure why I don’t want him to keep flirting. I keep my eyes on the dishes and not on him or his incredible body as we work silently to tidy the kitchen as though we do it every day. It’s unnerving how at home he seems. He oozes confidence that makes me think he’d be equally at home in anyone’s kitchen.

The thought makes me tense up. He’s probably used to cooking women breakfast. He’s probably got a hundred notches on his bedpost. It shouldn’t but a spark of misplaced jealousy lights inside me. I’m so irritated by my reaction at the thought of him being with another woman, I growl aloud.

He hands me the last plate and cocks his head. “You weren’t kidding. You really aren’t a morning person.”

I try to glare at him, but the lazy smile on his face makes it difficult to resist smiling back. My lips tug upwards, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction, so I toss the crumpled dishcloth onto the bench and head back to the living room where I can hopefully find some of my sanity again.

My phone is on the sofa, so I pick it up, checking to see if any messages came in. When I spy one from Rosie around 4am, I’m not surprised it’s taken over three hours to show up.

Hey girl. I met a total babe at that bar I told you about. He literally has a six pack! I may or may not have offered to bear his children. Love you.

I really don’t need a reminder of Rosie’s active sex life when I haven’t had sex in three years. My stomach tightens as I walk past the photo taken on the day Scott proposed. The day he promised he’d never leave. The day we made love in the bedroom I can’t bear to even open the door to.

I can’t think about Scott now. I can’t think about anything right now. What I need the most is to run, but with the rain and the wind outside, that’s not an option. I’ll go stir crazy if I’m forced to be confined with Connor for the remainder of the weekend. Doesn’t he mind being locked up with a grouchy thirty-something woman who’s teary one minute and snapping at him the next?

I shake off any thoughts of how I’m coming across and head to the door at the end of the hallway to the adjoining garage. The wind is louder in here. The insulation thinner. Cold seeps through the walls, making my breath visible. Foliage is littered around the floor, my car is covered in plants, dirt, and sand the wind has managed to pick up piling up under the door. I sigh and slump against the car, listening to the storm raging outside the flimsy garage as I try to still the torrent of unwelcome thoughts.

My cell chirps in my pocket startling me. I reach for it and peer at the curious message. That’s great. But who is this?

I stare at the message for a while, trying to make sense of it until I scroll through my sent messages and find Connor’s in the sent box.

Hey. Holed up with a hot blonde. I think I’m in love. Talk to you later.

I think I’m in love? What kind of message is that to send? His friend is probably worried, and he’s making a ridiculous statement like that? Why on earth would he send that? He obviously didn’t mean to send it to whoever replied.

I’m so annoyed at his carelessness and glibness over being wounded and not taking it seriously that I shove the phone back in my pocket and turn on my heels ready to confront him. The hallway is a welcome relief from the chilly garage as I stalk down the hallway. What isn’t welcome is the sight of Connor sitting shirtless on my sofa, trying to attach a new bandage to his chest. He’s even buffer than I realized and covered in so many tattoos I start to edge closer to examine what he cares enough about to ink on his skin.

All the wind leaves my lungs as he catches me staring at him. He smiles and gestures to the bandage he’s struggling with. “I know you can’t stand the sight of me, but would you?”

Can’t stand the sight of him? That is not the problem right now.

I’m paralyzed as he rolls his shoulders back in such a way my mouth conspires against my brain and lets a groan slide out. He doesn’t seem to notice, just sends me a hesitant smile. “I mean if it’s not too much trouble?”

Too much trouble? He’s sitting there, shirtless, looking like a Greek god, asking me if touching him is too much trouble?

My legs propel me towards him, ignoring my feeble protest that this is not a good idea, that I should walk away and go hide in the garage again. I’m trembling as I sit alongside him, my mouth dry as I take the bandage from his outstretched hand. His eyes stay locked on me as I lean over him, trying and failing not to look at his tattoos as I place the bandage on his chest.

He shifts closer as I look up and find his gaze on my lips. My fingers drift downwards, accidentally grazing his skin as I pull my hand back ready to move away, but he’s quicker than I am. He gently grasps my hand and presses my fingers to his lips. A pleasant shudder travels down my spine as he pulls me closer, so our thighs are touching.

“Thank you. You’re an angel.”

Heat floods through my body as I try to pull my hand away from him. His eyes narrow, then his other hand is at the back of my neck. I’m so shocked by how good his touch feels that I don’t resist when he tugs me towards him, and his lips press against my mouth.

Fire starts to spread burning through my body as his tongue caresses mine. All my nerve endings fire as my hands wander down his body like they have a mind of their own. His muscle is hard beneath me as I run my hands over his skin. If he’s in pain, he doesn’t show it. Doesn’t even flinch, just kisses me harder, sending waves of pleasure through my body.

My hands are in his hair, running over his back, his shoulders, he feels so good to touch, I don’t want to stop touching him. I want him to touch me back. I want to feel his hands on my skin. Him. This man I only just met.

What is wrong with me?

I pull away, near panting as I watch his chest rising and falling like he’s struggling to control himself as much as I am. His eyes are glassy, voice husky when his hands drop to my waist. “If you’re waiting for me to apologize for making a move, it’s not going to happen. You’re basically my dream girl.”

I cock my head at him and try to breathe. “Um, that’s um, really?”

He tugs me closer so I’m forced to lean into him. “Yeah. You’re the kind of girl I dream about every night.”

I know I shouldn’t, but I let him kiss me again, head growing lighter with every skilled movement of his mouth against mine. I’m three seconds away from climbing onto his lap when my phone chirps and I jerk away from him.

Heat blazes through my body as I try to focus my thoughts to remember what I wanted to talk to him about. His regret is audible as he runs a hand over his face and stares up at me as I stand on shaky legs and try to think past the desire building.

I avert my eyes from his intense gaze only to see fresh spots of blood are now seeping through the bandage. “Damn it. You’re bleeding again. We need to—”

His grin is a little weaker as he teases. “Stop making my dreams come true?”

I shake my head and reach down to grab the first aid kit beside him. “Maybe you should be lying down?”

He grins even wider. “I’m more than happy to lie down with you.”

I roll my eyes to cover the heat that the thought brings to my already inflamed cheeks and take a seat beside him. By thinking of how wrong this is, I manage to remove the adhesive bandage without losing complete control again. He relaxes back into the sofa and looks down at me as I squint at the gash on his chest. I flick a gaze up at him, but his eyes are on the cell phone I placed on the coffee table.

The entry wound looks almost circular. Whatever it is that struck him, he’s lucky the shrapnel didn’t go through him. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think this was a bullet wound.”

He inhales sharp enough for me to think I’ve hurt him. I look up ready to apologize, but it’s not pain I see on his face. His smile is lacking as he takes the bandage from my hands and presses it on, all with such ease I know for sure he didn’t really need my help.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll go lie down for a bit.” He shrugs Scott’s shirt over his body, wincing as the bandage pulls tight. Before I can think to tell him he’s being ridiculous, that it was just a kiss, he pulls himself to stand and starts to amble towards the back of the house.

“The bedrooms aren’t heated,” I call.

He doesn’t answer; either he can’t hear over the wind or he’s ignoring me. I slouch back and try not to think about what nearly happened on my sofa. I’m not sure if I want him to sleep in my room or the master, which until last night I hadn’t set foot in since Rosie and my mom removed my things after the funeral.

I grab my cell out of habit and mentally slap myself on the forehead for forgetting to ask him about his mis-sent message. That and all the other things I want to talk to him about are going to have to wait until he rests and I get a grip.