I awake disoriented and lost in the silence. It feels weird without the usual sounds—the loud honking of cars and music floating up from the dance studio across the alley. It feels like I’m naked.
Just absolute and complete silence.
Then I hear the giggle. A thump against the wall. A swear following the thump.
And I know he’s finally home.
Crap.
This isn’t how I planned on meeting him, but what am I going to do? Hide away in this bedroom and pretend I’m not here when my car is clearly parked on the left side of the driveway?
I scramble out of bed and throw on a robe, pull the sash on it as tight as it can go, and prepare myself to meet my new housemate. Of sorts.
There’s another giggle. A murmured sound of satisfaction. Both make me cringe to open my bedroom door.
But I do. Curiosity gets the best of me.
I’m blinded momentarily as the sun from the open front door reflects off one very sexy, slinky, and daring silver sparkly dress. A pair of sky-high strappy heels is in one of her hands. Her other is threaded through the hair at the base of the neck of the man whose back is to me.
I shouldn’t stare, but I do.
And not because I’m being rude but because of the immediate sense of inadequacy I feel when I look at her. My frumpy robe admittedly makes me feel out of place next to her in her party dress.
“I’ve gotta go,” she murmurs against his lips and, of course, her voice sounds like she looks, sultry as all hell.
“Mmm. You sure?” His laugh is a deep rumble that fills the hallway.
Another kiss. The run of his hand down the side of her torso until it rests squarely on her ass.
“No . . . but yes.”
They both chuckle as their lips meet again before she steps out of the open doorway, their arms stretching between them, giving me a full view of her for the first time.
Mussed, brown hair that makes bedhead look sexy. A body I’m used to seeing in the Los Angeles perfection I escaped but know I’ll never have: long legs, subtle curves, defined arms, great boobs. Simply put, she’s gorgeous.
I don’t even fear she’ll see me, because her eyes are so completely focused on him that I fade into the background.
They look like an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. Their positioning—her body turned toward his, the pout on her lips, the undeniable attraction between them.
Dear God. Is this what I’ve moved into? Perfectville?
After one more hesitation, she walks away with him staring after her and me looking at the back of him.
A car door shuts. An engine starts. His focus still on her.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare? If you were interested in joining, I’m sure Mal would’ve been all for it.”
His words blindside me, but nowhere near as much as the sight of him when he turns to face me.
Wow.
I open my mouth to speak. Close it. Open it again. Sputter. “I don’t—I’m not—she—” I manage to get some words out, but they come off sounding just how I look: frumpy. In my white fluffy bathrobe—that I’m holding closed at the neck—I look like someone’s aunt Gertrude while he looks like . . . that.
Perfection with a little bit of grit thrown in.
Those aqua eyes of his pin me motionless as they narrow and stare. “Well?” He lifts his eyebrows as he folds his arms across his chest and leans his shoulder against the wall. The hardened expression on his face transforms instantly when his mouth turns into a carefree smile. “Relax, McCoy. I’m just teasing you, but I have to admit, the look on your face was worth it.” In the same amount of time it takes me to breathe a sigh of relief, he crosses the distance of the foyer and reaches a hand out to me. “Grady Malone.”
“Dylan McCoy.” I look at where our hands meet, and my attention is hijacked by the abs in the background, peeking out from behind his unbuttoned shirt. All eight of them. “But you knew that. Thanks for letting me . . . uh—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says as he walks past me and into the family room. “Sorry I didn’t know you were here or else I would have”—he shrugs in an adorably sheepish way that is in complete contradiction to the pure, heady maleness of him—“not made so much noise.”
“My car’s in the driveway. Can’t be much more obvious than that,” I say, fully aware I’m being sarcastic when he doesn’t deserve it. But, he opened the door with his initial comment.
And frankly, I’m sick of taking shit from men. After Jett . . . ugh. After Jett is all I need to say to remind myself why I’m allowed to be snarky.
“I never use the driveway.” He looks at me and lifts his eyebrows unapologetically.
“And I’m supposed to know that, how?”
“Are you always this combative?” His tone sounds as if he’s irritated, but his smile says anything but.
It stops me from saying more, and I remind myself he isn’t Jett. Grady Malone isn’t the man who broke my heart. He’s not the reason I’ve set off for the next few months to lick my wounds and gain some distance to grow immune to his charms before I have to face him again.
“No. Sorry. I . . . it’s just been a long few days.” I hang my head for a moment, swallow my pride when I’m so used to being strong, and then lift it back up. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I appreciate it.”
“You needed a place to stay. I have an extra room in a house where I’m gone several days of the week. And it’s Damon.” He shrugs as if letting a friend’s sister stay in his house for a few months is something he’d do any day of the week. “I’d do anything for your brother.”
“Thanks. Like I said, I appreciate it more than you know.”
“We all need to get out of Dodge sometimes. I get it.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. I shake my head when he holds one out to me.
The scanner on his bookshelf comes to life—codes dispatched to Fire Station Thirteen—scaring the shit out of me, and brings back the bittersweet memories of my childhood. I must jump a foot because Grady laughs. “Sorry ’bout that. I have a habit of turning it on the minute I walk in the door.”
“It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” I was used to it once.
“You can always turn it off if I forget when I leave for a shift.” I nod in response. “Make yourself at home. Did you find the Wi-Fi code?”
“No.” I remember my fruitless attempt to find it. “I didn’t want to snoop.” I rest my hips against the back of the couch as he walks out of the kitchen and mirrors my posture against the counter a few feet across from me.
“Snoop all you like. I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, I made sure all the really embarrassing and equally pleasurable sex toys were put away before you arrived.” He flashes that grin, and I stare at him, mouth agape, wide-eyed and innocent when I’m far from it.
All I can do is choke on air.
He shakes his head. “Jesus. You’re as easy to rile up as your brother. If you’re going to live here, Dyl, you’re going to have to learn to relax. I like to joke. Life’s too serious not to joke. So get used to it.”
“Dyl?” I’m so used to Jett and his broody ways that Grady’s humor is going to take some getting used to.
“We’re roommates now. It’s normal to shorten each other’s names, isn’t it? You’ll call me Grade. I’ll call you Dyl. See? Perfect.”
“Are you always this cheerful?”
“Depends on the day. Or the morning.” He rubs a hand over his unshaven jaw and grins as his eyes flash toward the door. Ah, Mal, the source of his happiness.
My mind is moving a million miles an hour. Living here seemed fine twenty-four hours ago when I had the house to myself, and he was on shift. But now he’s home, and I have to get used to the fact that he’s going to be everywhere. Him and his cheery demeanor. Or rather, him and his girlfriend.
“Is your girlfriend going to have a problem with this?” My mind flashes to Jett. And walking in on him and Tara. In my bed. Not that I’d do that to Mal. Not that Grady would want that with me . . .
“Who?”
He has to ask? “Glitter-dress girl.”
“Glitter dress? Oh, no. She isn’t my girlfriend.”
“Oh.”
“And she won’t be around again.”
Could’ve called that one a mile away.
“Ah, you’re so sentimental.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
“At least I’m honest.”
“Does she know that?”
He rolls his eyes like a little boy. “Yes, she knows that. Mallory and I used to have a thing. She moved away and was home visiting some family . . . so we, uh—”
“Reconnected?”
“If that’s the term you want to use.” He chews on his smile.
Every part of me wants to find fault with him for being so cavalier, but I can’t. There’s something about the roguish look on his face and dead honesty with me, a woman he’s never met before, that makes him seem almost adorable . . . in a grown man kind of way.
“I’m hungry. You hungry? Let’s go get breakfast. Break bread . . . or in our case, break pancakes.”
I scrunch my nose and study him. The messy brown hair, eyes laden with humor that probably see more than they should, and that body. If I were to base my opinion solely on what his abs look like, well, hell . . . at least I’ll have something good to look at when I get writer’s block.
“Breakfast?”
“Yeah, that stuff you eat in the morning. Fuel for the day. The must-have meal. Breakfast.”
My stomach rumbles at the thought. “Sure. Yeah. You have some, uh”—I let go of where my hand is holding my robe together and point to a smear of red on the side of his face—“lipstick on your cheek.”
“That isn’t the only place I have it.” He flashes me a devilish grin before unapologetically walking out of the family room. “Be ready in ten to leave.”
And I stare after him. Of course I do. My eyes wander over his retreating back and I picture things I shouldn’t be thinking. What he’d look like naked with a strategically placed kiss of lipstick.
Then I groan.
I can’t think like this.
Besides, he said he likes to joke.
He’s probably joking.
Then why can’t I get the visual out of my head?