“Should I be offended that he didn’t give me an Indian name?” Mick asked as they pulled out of Carl’s driveway.

Though he couldn’t argue with the “weird” assessment, he also had to admit he’d come away with a bit of respect for the guy. He’d voluntarily made a huge change in his life and had embraced it with the sort of furor that seemed to be a dying breed. He could honestly say he didn’t know anybody who would willingly give up running water--most notably a toilet--electricity and climate control.

In the interest of health concerns, Carl did have a small dorm-sized refrigerator and a hot plate, but most of his meals were cooked outside over an open flame. That part of Squatting Buck’s existence really appealed to a lone caveman gene still lurking in Mick’s domesticated DNA, but he imagined he’d grow weary of it pretty damned quick. Carl had already survived a winter out here--quite comfortably, he’d said--and seemed to be doing fine during this broiling summer.

“No, you shouldn’t be offended. It’s not like he’s tossing names out to every person that he meets,” she teased.

Mick felt a grin roll across his lips. “Are you trying to say that Carl thinks your special?”

Actually, it was painfully obvious that Carl thought she was special. He’d asked her about her work and her animals, and made a point to tell her to let him know if she needed anything. He also mentioned, as covertly as possible, that her step-mother had made a sizable withdrawal for a down-payment on a vacation home. The worried frown which had wrinkled her brow had been echoed in his mind, but the determined chew-nails-and-spit bullets look immediately following had made him want to chuckle with pride. Why? Who the hell knew? And at this point he was tired of trying to make sense of his motivation.

Sarah Jane Walker was something else. The heart, the spirit, the sense of humor and the work ethic were an amazing combination, one he found increasingly hard to resist. Then there was the whole matter of her making him want to back her up against a wall and take her until her eyes rolled back in her head. Then take her again until his did.

This driving need, this utter desperation and increasing lack of control--touching her was a mistake because it had only made things worse--was something so new and unique and foreign Mick was finding himself slowing sinking in a pit of sexual hell where she was his only hope for survival. He couldn’t look at her without feeling it, an increasingly insistent pull which affected both his groin, and more disturbingly, a soft spot in his chest.

Frankly, Mick didn’t have any idea how much money was in her father’s accounts--what she stood to inherit--though he probably should make it a point to find out. At any rate, he knew it had to be a pretty hefty nest-egg, otherwise Chastity could hardly afford to pay for their services, nor would she have gone to the trouble to hire them to keep Sarah Jane from finding the will. He’d seen the agreement, knew his cut, and knew the surveillance wasn’t cheap.

Furthermore, if Sarah Jane had a prayer of keeping the remainder for herself or getting any of the other money back, she’d better act fast, otherwise he had a sneaking suspicion there wouldn’t be anything left. Maybe that had been part of the purpose as well, Mick thought, senses going on point. Maybe Chastity hadn’t been happy with her part and had every intention of depleting the accounts before Sarah Jane could find and probate the will.

“Can I help it if I’m a special snowflake?” she asked, batting her lashes at him playfully, dragging his thoughts back to the conversation at hand.

He grunted, amused. “No more than you can help that you’re full of shit, I guess.”

“Hey,” she said, feigning outrage. “My Indian name is Warrior Bleeding Heart not Princess Full of Shit.” Her speculative gaze raked over him, sizing him up and his dick literally stood to attention, as though she’d stroked him with more than her gaze. “You definitely need an Indian name,” she said. “And before you leave town, I’m going to come up with one for you.”

So long as it wasn’t Little Limp Dick, he wouldn’t object. He pulled a negligent shrug. “Knock yourself out, sweetheart. I don’t mind.” He paused. “How did Carl wind up with Squatting Buck. It’s a bit...” Mick struggled to find the right word.

“Ignoble,” Sarah Jane supplied, toffee eyes twinkling.

Mick grinned. “That would be it, yes. I wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure if it would be polite. My Indian etiquette is pretty nonexistent.”

“I don’t think he would have had a problem with it. Carl’s last name is Hirsh, which is German for ‘Buck.’ He wanted something that would reflect that heritage as well.”

Mick nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. But why ‘Squatting’? Why not ‘Running’ or ‘Walking’ or, hell, even ‘Sitting’...something a bit more dignified. Do bucks even squat?” he wondered aloud, frowning. Honestly, he’d never watched a deer do his business, but couldn’t imagine one squatting to get the job done.

Chuckling softly under her breath, Sarah Jane shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know why the tribal elders chose ‘Squatting’, but I’m sure it has some sort of significance.”

Mick grimaced. “I think I would have had to protest and ask for another one.”

Another strangled laugh emerged from her throat. “I’m not up on Indian etiquette either, but I don’t b-believe that’s an o-option.”

He paused and turned to look at her. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Sorry,” she said, her voice cracking with suppressed laughter. “I can’t seem to help myself.” She cleared her throat. “So I take it you don’t want the word ‘squatting’ to be any part of the Indian name I give you?”

His lips twitched and he nodded. “That would be an excellent assumption.”

Still smiling, Sarah Jane merely made a humming noise in her throat. The late evening sun poured out its pretty rays, spreading them in an orange, pink and purple display across the horizon. Rather than using the AC, she’d powered down her window, causing her loose hair to whirl around her face, occasionally clinging to her eyelashes and mouth. She’d abandoned the sunglasses and looked relaxed and content, at peace with her world.

Curiously, though he definitely wasn’t at peace with his world and raging attraction aside, he felt an odd kind of peace with her, specifically. He’d noticed it this afternoon after he’d returned from taking Mason home. It had just been the two of them in that old house, music playing from her portable radio, dust motes dancing through the hot summer air...

Despite her initial protestations, he’d set his camera aside and picked up a hammer and, for the first time since the Carson Wells incident, he’d felt more alive--more himself--than he had in months. Whether it was her company or the work or a combination of both, he couldn’t be sure.

He just knew that it had felt...right.

Though he hated that Mason was sick, it wouldn’t hurt Mick’s feelings in the least if the man didn’t show up for work tomorrow. Or even the next day. Or the next. Egocentric? Maybe. But he wanted selfishly wanted to explore this newfound well-being and he could hardly do that if Mason was there in his assistant capacity.

Furthermore, though it was the height of idiocy, he wanted to be alone with Sarah Jane. He wanted the opportunity to get to know her better, and not just in the physical sense, which was an ever-present goal hanging in the back of his head, chugging along his veins and swirling in his loins. His fingers literally itched to touch her skin, to feel the silken softness of her cheek against the palm of his hand, to taste her mouth and her neck and the delicate tips of her breasts.

Though he would like to blame this supernatural attraction on the fact that she was supposed to be off-limits--and even recognized that it no doubt added to her appeal on his hell-raiser level--Mick knew there was more to it than that. He was a man, after all, and was no stranger to his baser needs. He’d been attracted to lots of women before and frankly, had had most of them. He’d always been goal-oriented and, when he’d set his mind on something--or someone--he typically developed tunnel-vision until he’d accomplished his goal. That very focused tenacity had ultimately been his downfall, had ended his military career, Mick thought, swallowing.

At any rate, whatever this was with Sarah Jane--this unshakable, driving had-to-have-her need--he knew it was more than just regular old garden variety lust.

It was more.

It involved curiosity and intrigue and affection and God help him, feelings.

He couldn’t name them, of course, and wouldn’t if he could. But he couldn’t deny them all the same...which was going to make ignoring them all the more difficult.

Sarah Jane hung a left onto a long tree-lined drive--the very one he’d watched her disappear down yesterday evening--plunging the cab of the truck into cool semi-darkness. Mick peered out the window, but couldn’t see anything for all the trees.

He lifted a brow. “Where are we going?”

Sarah Jane smiled. “To my dream house,” she said. “I was sick over the Milton Plantation, but if this one were to suffer the same fate...” Her voice trailed off and she let go a small sigh as a break in the trees finally revealed a beautiful old house sitting atop a knoll in the distance.

Mick whistled low, instantly struck by the beauty and setting. “Wow.”

And wow was an understatement. The two-story house sported large columns and a double verandah and most notably, showcased a pretty stained glass angel in an oval window on the second floor. An occasional black shudder clung next to the multi-paned windows, giving a hint of what it might have looked like had it all been restored.

Sarah Jane pulled to a stop, turned off the ignition and opened her door. “Come on, we’ll have to hurry. The light’s fading.”

Mick exited the vehicle as well and, taking it all in, followed her around to the back, where an unlocked door barely hung from its hinges. “Are we trespassing?”

She shot him a look over her shoulder and snorted. “Like you’d care if we were.”

Mick smiled, conceding the point.

“Like so many of the houses of this era, the kitchen was separate and all that’s left of it is the foundation,” she said. She carefully opened the door and gingerly crept inside. She gestured to the windows on the left hand side of the room. “It’s shaped like a horseshoe, so all of the rooms open into the courtyard.”

Mick nodded, impressed.

“Were I to refurbish this house, this room would have to be the kitchen.” She walked into the next. “This one the dining room, of course.”

“Makes sense.”

Enchanted, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled along in her wake. He followed her into the next room, which was bigger and grander, with a giant fireplace in one end. “Family room.”

Mick looked up. “What are these? Ten foot ceilings?”

“Twelve.” She wandered over to a front window and stared out over the landscape. “There isn’t a bad view in the place, Mick. I love this little hill, the trees marching along the drive. It’s peaceful and elegant...and lonely.” She looked over at him and smiled a bit uncomfortably. “You think I’m a nut, don’t you?”

Mick rubbed the back of his neck. “Not at all. You’ve spent so much time working on old places like this I’d be surprised if you didn’t feel some sort of connection.”

“It’s stronger here,” she admitted. “Has been even when I was a kid, coming out here to make the odd repair with my father. I’ve even done a little research, wondering if perhaps any of my family had ever worked here.”

Why not lived here? Mick wondered. Seemingly following his thought process, a grin tugged at Sarah Jane’s lips. “My people are strictly working class folk. They could have never afforded anything like this.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “So have you found an association?”

She shook her head, causing a lock of hair to shift tantalizingly over her breast. “Not yet. But I can’t shake the feeling that one is here.” She pulled a slow shrug. “I’m just going to have to keep looking, I guess.”

And she would, Mick knew, because it was important to her. Another admirable trait to add to a growing list of many. Mick wandered into the foyer, keen to inspect the rest of the house before it grew too dark. A beautiful staircase clung to the wall to the left, paused at a large landing, where it made an abrupt right, then continued up the right-hand side of the wall.

Sarah Jane joined him. “Beautiful architecture, isn’t it?”

“Amazing,” he agreed.

“And just think. All of this was done before the age of the power saw, nail gun and pneumatic tools. By hand. When it took time and attention to detail. No prefab work.” Her caramel gaze twinkled with admiration and just the hint of danger. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

Mick looked into the next room. “What about the rest?”

Sarah Jane carefully put a foot on the first tread. “It’s a mirror image of what you just saw. Three more rooms, all open to the courtyard, which would house my pool, of course.” She took another step. “Come on. I’ve done this so many times I know which steps are sound and which ones aren’t.”

“For your weight,” he said. “But what about mine?”

“It’ll hold. And it’s worth it,” she promised. “Just watch where I go and give me a couple steps head start.”

If he’d been any other guy, he would have chastised her for taking the chance--old house + rotten wood + staircase = potential disaster. But he wasn’t any other guy--he was the Hell-raiser--and she wasn’t any other girl. She was a woman who wasn’t afraid of hard work, who wasn’t afraid to throw a punch and who wasn’t afraid to trespass on private property.

In fact, at the moment, he could honestly believe that she wasn’t afraid of anything. Envy and respect grabbed a hold of his insides and twisted. Oh, to have that sort of confidence again, Mick thought, following her up the stairs. To have that sort of assurance, that guarantee of one’s ability.

Furthermore, if he had any sense at all...he’d be afraid of her. Because, God help him, Sarah Jane Walker, if she put her mind to it, could undoubtedly bring him to his knees.

And in exchange, he’d bring her to hers, but not in the same sense, unfortunately. Like everything else he’d been involved with in recent memory, he’d infect her with his bad mojo and turn her life into a steaming pile that currently mirrored his own. Honestly, right now his world was so messed up he didn’t have any business being anywhere near her. She was perfect--at least in every way to him--and, despite the issue with the will and her inheritance...happy. He didn’t want to mess that up for her and becoming emotionally involved would do it faster than Clara’s resident ghost could say boo.

He needed to alert Huck to the change in status of this case, then get the hell out of here before he did something completely stupid--like kiss her.

And more.

Having reached the landing, she stood at the window overlooking the vast landscape. Seeing her pretty frame silhouetted against the rolling hills and sunset, the wistfulness along her brow and the hint of pleasure in the curve of her mouth, was almost his undoing. He felt a ball of unnamed emotion expand in his chest, then drop to his feet.

Mick silently released a shaky breath, then sidled in beside her, purposely crowding into her space because he simply couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t help himself. She was the only bright spot in his otherwise dismal world and he was drawn to her like the proverbial moth to a flame. He caught the scent of her perfume--a combination of apples and warmth--and he breathed her in, savoring the smell. “You were right,” he murmured.

“I usually am, but about what specifically?”

A chuckle erupted from his throat and he shook his head. “You don’t have a modest bone in your body, do you?”

“I do,” she said, turning to look at him. A hint of mischief shone in her eyes, and something else...something less easily defined. She held up her hand and put a minute amount of space between her index finger and thumb. “But it’s very small.”

Unable to help himself, he laughed again. “I meant you were right about the view. It’s gorgeous. And I love the stained glass.” He paused, moved by the house and its surrounding more than he could have expected.

A faint grin rife with a hint of embarrassment shaped her lips. “That’s my wishing angel,” she said. “When I was a little girl, I used to make wishes on it, fancied that she could hear me and someday would honor my requests.”

Mick felt his lips twitch. “What did you wish for?”

“Oh, the usual stuff. The occasional good grade, a new bike, for Justin Timberlake to come into town and fall instantly in love with me.”

Mick chuckled. “Justin Timberlake?”

“Hey, don’t judge,” she admonished. “Justin’s hot.” She sighed, remembering. “But mostly I just wished I could live here. This is a great house.”

It was. The Milton Plantation was sad, but this was far worse. This house wasn’t past the point of no return, but was getting there quickly. “What’s the name of this place?” Mick wanted to know. “Who owns it? Why have they let it fall into disrepair?”

“Officially it’s named Ponder Hill.” She hesitated, grinned, and blew out an uneasy breath. “Unofficially it’s called the Widow-maker.”

Mick felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I think Ponder Hill is more aesthetically pleasing, but for the sake of argument why is it called the Widow-maker?”

“Because Imogene Childress has buried three husbands who basically worked themselves to death keeping the place up. She’s childless, in her nineties and refuses to sell it.” Sarah Jane tucked a stray stand of hair behind the delicate shell of her ear. “She hopes the whole thing falls to rack and ruin so that it doesn’t ‘claim the life of another good man.’” She said the last in a theatrical quavery voice which would have done Broadway proud. Or at the very least, Clara whom he got to hear sing last night.

Mick grunted. “Sounds like Imogene has a flair for the dramatic.”

“Whether she does or she doesn’t, it’s hers and I haven’t been the only one who’s tried to persuade her to sell. She absolutely refuses.”

“So...what? Did her husbands fall of the roof making repairs? Tumble down the stairs?”

Droll humor sparkled in her eyes. “Husband number one had a heart attack at the card table, number two suffered a stroke in his sleep, and number three died of cancer.” She shrugged helplessly. “So did the house kill them? No. But you’ll never convince her of that.” Sarah Jane looked at the ever-darkening sky. “We’d better get going,” she said. “It’s getting late.”

Though he found himself reluctant to go, Mick nodded and started back down the stairs.

“Wait,” Sarah Jane said. “I should go first.”

“Don’t worry,” Mick told her. “I know the way back down.”

She smiled, considering him. “You’re sure? It’s a little tricky.”

He’d survived military school, some of the most rigorous military training in the world, enemy fire and countless stunts resulting in the occasional broken bone, but never wounded pride. Oh, yeah. He thought could handle it.

What he couldn’t handle, he was beginning to realize, was her.

 

*   *   *

 

“So, have you got it yet?” Mick asked, as Sarah Jane pulled back into her driveway. While Blinken was AWOL, Winken and Nod sat in the front window, and a flutter of curtains told her the dogs were nosing the gauzy fabric aside, evidently recognizing the sound of her truck. A blanket of warmth settled over her chest as she watched her furry family eagerly, as always, await her return.

But for the first time in her life, Sarah Jane was nervous about coming home. Because Mick was about to walk her to her door and the anxiety of whether or not that first kiss--the one she wanted so desperately she’d forgone the onion rings at Mabel’s--was going to happen was shredding her nerves like wood-chipper stuck on high.

“Have I got one what yet?” she asked, trying valiantly to stay tuned into the conversation.

The smile that turned his beautiful lips was so sexy and knowing her stomach actually gave a little roll. “My Indian name,” he reminded her.

That had quickly turned into a running joke, she thought, remembering his “Virile Bad Ass” suggestion he’d tossed out over dinner. Quite frankly, she thought Virile Bad Ass suited him perfectly and the more time she spent with him, the more apt the moniker.

He was certainly both. Still...

“How many times do I have to tell you,” she said, “that when I come up with it I’ll let you know. The name has to be organic, not dragged from the shadow of your enormous ego.”

Mick closed the car door and followed her up onto her porch. Her koi pond gurgled along with the typical night sounds, creating a natural soundtrack to her ever-growing nervousness and off-the-charts attraction. It was insanity to want someone so much. Beyond rational thought.

“Enormous ego?” he chuckled, feigning offense. “Where on earth did you get the idea that I have an enormous ego?”

Hands trembling, Sarah Jane fished her house key out of her small purse, but hesitated before slipping it into the lock. She felt a wry smile tilt her lips and she turned to face him, then almost jumped when she realized he was much closer than she’d thought.

She was so definitely getting kissed, Sarah Jane, thought, feeling a wicked thrill whip through her midsection. She resisted the urge to do a little screaming happy dance and felt a burst of anticipation coursing through her blood.

“Where would I get the idea that you’ve got an enormous ego?” Smiling, she chewed the inside of her cheek. “Well, let’s review a few of your suggestions tonight, shall we?”

Mick’s twinkling blue gaze dropped to her lips, darkened, then found hers once more. “If you insist,” he murmured.

Oy. Those blue flame eyes coupled that sexy, endearing mouth were going to be her downfall.

With any luck, right onto a mattress.

Clearly she’d lost her mind. Hadn’t she decided he was trouble? That he had more problems than she could take on? That he’d never stay here? Didn’t she know all of this.

Yes, she did. The problem was...she didn’t care. She just wanted him. Every wonderful, magnificently proportioned inch of him.

“I, uh... I do,” Sarah Jane said. “We’ve covered Virile Bad Ass. Then there was Brilliant Bad Ass and Handsome Bad Ass.” She cocked her head to the side and hummed under her breath. “I’m recognizing a theme here. You seem to be obsessed with being a bad ass.”

Mick chuckled softly, the sound curiously intimate between them. “I’d hardly want to be a pansy ass, would I?”

An unladylike grunt rose in her throat and she rolled her eyes. “I don’t think anyone would ever mistake you for a pansy ass.”

“You either,” he said, in what was possibly the best compliment anyone had ever paid her. Whether he was simply that insightful or her expectations were just too low who could say? All Sarah Jane knew, as she blushed with pleasure from the inside out, felt it manifest itself on her face and in the tingly palms of her hands, was that Mick Chivers affected her on a level she’d never experienced and instinctively knew would never be duplicated.

Mick’s gaze tangled with hers, seemingly drawing her closer...

In this very moment she hovered on the edge of an existence which was about to be permanently altered. Life as she knew it was a mere few seconds away from irreparable change.

And for better or worse, she didn’t care. She just wanted to taste him. Had to.

...he cupped her cheek, the gesture simultaneously sexy and affectionate, pulling a soft sigh from between her lips...

“Sarah Jane,” he said huskily, his mouth a hairsbreadth from her own.

“Mmm-Mmm.” Talking wasn’t an option. She could feel his breath, smell him even. Dark, dangerous, musky and Man all rolled into one sense-drugging aroma that made her lids heavy and her sex ache. Her nipples tingled and her knees weakened, making her lean closer to him.

“Can I kiss you?”

The gesture was quaint and old-fashioned and, while she would have never associated those qualities to this eternal bad boy, to her surprise...they actually fit, which made the moment all the more special.

Touched, she smiled against his lips. “Not if I kiss you first,” she whispered, then pushed her hands into his hair and drew him down to her.

Everything inside her simultaneously stilled and erupted at the first brush of his lips across hers. Her skin prickled, her hair stood on end and a wave of gooseflesh engulfed every inch of her body, including parts she didn’t think could shiver. The anticipation of a first kiss was one of life’s great pleasures, one of the few which could never be duplicated. Reams of paper, odes and sonnets had been written about the phenomenon of that first mating of the mouths, that intimate mimicry of another much anticipated act. Sarah Jane Walker had been the recipient of many first kisses, some of them eagerly, some of them stolen, some of them to simply end a date.

But absolutely nothing in her experience compared to this first kiss.

It was heartbreakingly perfect, desperate and dangerous, the disease and the cure. It was though every moment up until this point had simply been a precursor to this event. If the brain in her head had been anything but mush, she would have been absolutely terrified.

As it were...she just wanted more.

Mick’s lips were surprisingly soft, but warm and pliant and felt every bit as magnificent against her own as she’d imagined. A soft manly groan eddied from his mouth and into hers, vibrating over her tongue and he drew her closer, one strong arm banding around her waist, while the other slipped past her jaw, into the hair behind her ear, cupping her head. Deliberate fingers kneaded her scalp as his tongue slid against hers, a mind-numbingly wonderful combination that made her stomach flutter and her pulse sing. She sighed in pleasure, in relief because she’d wanted this so desperately, but meanwhile another sort of urgency had taken hold.

She felt her nipples pebble behind the flimsy fabric of her bra and a rush of warmth pooled in her core. Her blood slugged hotly through her veins, making her conversely hurried and languid. Her pulse tripped wildly while her body felt like it was moving in slow motion.

Mick suckled her tongue, making her bones melt where she sagged even further against him. The hard ridge of his arousal nudged impatiently at her belly, causing another wicked thrill to swirl through her middle.

Hot, hard, male.

It had been so long and he was so perfect. She resisted the urge to whimper and kissed him deeper, mapping the rest of his body with her hands. Muscles bunched beneath her fingers, warm and supple, corded neck and surprisingly soft skin. She inhaled his scent as she fed at his mouth, growing more hungry and needy by the second.

Thankfully, Mick was too.

She could feel the tension hovering around him, could taste it on her tongue, heard it in the soft groans of pleasure bubbling up his throat. His hands slid slowly down her back, as though memorizing every vertebrae, then settled warmly over her bottom and squeezed. That small amount of pressure literally made the breath leave her lungs. It was strangely possessive, which should have pissed her off, but instead merely made her moronic heart skip a beat.

Sarah Jane pressed herself even more tightly against him, determined to eliminate even the barest hint of separation. Mick responded by holding her closer, branding her with his masculine frame. He rocked against her belly once more and carefully backed her up against a porch pole. He nipped at her earlobe and licked a path along her neck, tasting the pulse point and nuzzling her throat. Meanwhile his hands had left off her bottom and were making a determined track back up her body, along her hip, up her side. She whimpered, longing to feel the weight of her breast in his big warm palm. His mouth feeding there, licking and tasting and suckling with those talented sinfully crafted lips.

Heat rushed to her core, coating her folds and she squirmed desperately against him, aligning herself more firmly against the impossibly large ridge straining against the front of his pants. She wiggled closer as his hand finally brushed the underside of her breast, gasping as slightest contact make her skin prickle in anticipation. Higher, she thought, her nipple drawing into a tight bud. Oh, please, just a little--

A police siren followed by a catcall abruptly cut through her foggy, desperate lust-ridden thoughts and she sprang back guiltily.

“It’s a good thing you’re on your porch, Sarah Jane, or I’d have to take you in for lewd and lascivious behavior,” Chase called from his squad car.

Mortified, Sarah Jane felt her face flame. “Go away, Chase. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

He nodded toward Mick. “Is this Mr. Gorgeous?”

Mick frowned, but humor danced in his heavy-lidded gaze, betraying a bit masculine pride. “Mr. Gorgeous? Is that my Indian nickname?”

She chuckled. “No. Your Indian name won’t have a Mister in it.” The goofball, she thought, enjoying that pleased smile of his.

“Chase Collins,” Chase called out to Mick. “Old friend of Sarah Jane’s.” He shook his head regretfully as though Sarah Jane was a poor testament to southern hospitality. “She seems to have forgotten her manners.”

She harrumphed under her breath. “My tax dollars at work,” she grumbled.

“Mick Chivers, new friend of Sarah Jane’s.” He shot her a look. “And I hope I’m Mr. Gorgeous.”

“You the photographer?” Chase asked conversationally, while Sarah Jane entertained thoughts of throttling him.

Mick nodded and his grin grew even wider. “I am.”

“Oh, yeah then. You’re Mr. Gorgeous.” Evidently deciding his work here was done, Chase nodded a good evening and, smiling like the evil shit-stirring bastard he was, rode off into the night.

Mick’s twinkling but curiously hesitant gaze found hers and he rubbed the back of his neck. “So...what sort of friend is he exactly?”

Jealous was he? she wondered, inwardly blushing with pleasure. “The sort that gets on my nerves.” Not the answer he was looking for, she knew, but...

Mick hummed. “That covers a lot of territory.”

Sarah Jane decided to take pity on him. “I’ve known Chase since Kindergarten,” she said. “Other than a brief do-you-love-me-check-yes-or-no flirtation in second grade--where our romance came to a tragic end on the playground after I beat him in the fifty yard dash--we’ve been nothing but good friends ever since.”

Mick chuckled, the deep sound resonating through her. “Couldn’t stand losing to a girl, eh?”

Sarah Jane sighed dramatically. “It’s been a recurring problem, I’m afraid. I don’t like to lose and don’t see any point in doing it just for the sake of some boy’s pride. Ya’ll are the one’s with balls,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Use them, for pity’s sake.”

Another chuckle sounded in Mick’s throat which quickly morphed into a long belly laugh. “Interesting p-philosophy. And refreshingly blunt. You’re something else, Sarah Jane,” he said, seemingly impressed. “Truly unique.”

She nodded primly. “Thank you. I like to think so.”

His laughing gaze found hers once more and the world again shrank into a more intimate focus. “I’ve had a good time tonight.” His voice was low and sincere, wrapping around her chest. “Thank you for showing me around.”

Sarah Jane nodded, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “You’re welcome.”

“I should probably get going. I’d hate for you to get arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior on my account.”

For the teeniest second she considered pointing out that she could hardly get arrested for those things if she invited him in, but ultimately decided he was right. Though her body begged to differ, her mind had honed in on some long-forgotten sense of self-preservation and wasn’t yet ready to surrender.

She nodded, playing along. “You’re right, of course. I know Tina is growing weary of bailing me out of jail.”

He fingered a petunia petal. “Happens that often, does it?”

“Nah,” she said. “Just often enough to keep everybody on their toes.”

That wicked laugh again, the one that made her want to crawl inside him and never come out. “I can certainly see where you do that.” He leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss on her cheek. “Goodnight, Sarah Jane. I’ll see you in the morning.”

From inside the house, Sarah Jane heard her phone ring, which thankfully prevented her from standing on her porch and watching him drive away like a moonstruck teenager with her first crush.

As for her really keeping people on their toes, she sincerely doubted it and couldn’t imagine anyone keeping Mick Chivers on his. Utterly laughable.

But she knew this--hers had been curled for the better part of the evening.