SIXTEEN
The bastard had fallen asleep on her couch. Ginger glared daggers at his skull, willing him to wake up before she resorted to violence. He couldn’t sleep there!
But he was also so peaceful looking, she couldn’t bear to wake him.
Oh, the struggles of a single, horny woman!
The options were many, including but not limited to, hitting him over the head with a throw pillow. But that handsome face, so gentle and sweet in repose, was killer on her heartstrings. There was only one answer to why she was even debating it, and it was that she was going soft.
How many men had she kicked to the curb over the years? Dozens. Granted, they’d all been at the compound, because she flat out refused to allow men into her apartment, but still. A room was a room, and personal space was personal space.
And Repo was Repo.
Correction: Garrick.
He was a stubborn fool on his best day, and besides…she liked him. Kind of. Maybe.
Okay, she did. A lot.
But he didn’t have to know that!
She found herself staring at his mouth. Those shapely lips, outlined by a beard so soft and white it often earned him references to Santa Claus, had been between her legs last night, giving her such pleasure she’d thought she’d go blind.
The memory itself gave her shivers.
She shouldn’t, but she wanted more.
Touching her own fingers to her lips, she remembered the way his felt on hers, and even further back to when his body had had hers. They’d been together multiple times over the years, but none were as memorable as that one night so long ago. It was so hard not to relive it, and she’d spent years trying. The problem was, Garrick was a man who left an impression. Everywhere he went. It was the reason so many women fell to their knees before him—literally. Once you had a taste of Garrick Stone, everyone else was a poor substitution.
So, she should probably count herself lucky that she had his undivided attention. But she didn’t. Not at all, because hooking up with a biker always brought with it a host of problems, and Ginger liked her life uncomplicated, thank you very much.
Still, the way he tasted—
A commotion outside caught Ginger’s attention, and she looked toward the front door. Someone was arguing next door. She wouldn’t have even heard it if it hadn’t been so dead silent. On soft feet, she padded to the window, standing in the shadows of the curtains, listening to the strains of hushed, harsh whispers.
Whoever it was, they didn’t want to be overheard. But she knew from the direction, it was coming from her strange neighbor.
Now, what would he be doing with visitors at this hour?
She’d never known him to have any visitors, as he didn’t even appear to leave the apartment, even though she knew he must. He had to eat, at least.
Ears straining to pick out anything intelligible, Ginger was startled when something slammed up against the wall separating the two apartments. She waited, rooted in place, for more, but after a moment, she heard the apartment door slam shut and the heavy clomp of footsteps bounding down the stairs. Peeling back a corner of the curtains, she tried to catch a glimpse of whoever it was, but she only caught the top of a dark head.
A moment later, she heard a car start, and then she saw headlights as it backed from its space below. The driver peeled off, their anger still clearly intact, but at least she could make out that it was a sports car of some sort—dark, flashy, expensive.
Her brows knit together. What kind of person with that much money would be hanging around a dive like this?
“See anything worth telling?”
Repo’s sandpaper voice scared the bejesus out of her, making Ginger nearly leap out of her skin. Whirling around, she clutched the cross pendant that hung from her neck. “Don’t sneak up on a person like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Stony expression firmly in place, Garrick moved up beside her and drew the curtains open, those frosty blue eyes scanning the parking lot. “That sort of thing happen often?”
“What, a heart attack? No, but if you keep sneaking around like a ninja, it might.”
“I meant the fighting.” Dropping the curtains, he turned to face her, eyes assessing. “Your neighbor struck me as off earlier.”
So he had noticed, had he? Granted, it was hard to miss. Turning away, Ginger headed for her bedroom, feeling the heaviness of sleep pressing down on her. It was no surprise when Garrick followed, and she just didn’t have the energy to strike up another argument, so she answered him instead. “I think he’s a shut-in. It was probably a family member checking in on him or something. I can imagine how frustrating that would be to deal with, can’t you, dealing with mental illness?”
Uncaring if he was watching or not because let’s face it, he was, and it was nothing he hadn’t seen before, Ginger laid her nightgown out on the bed and started to undress.
Keeping her back to him, she unhooked her bra and let it fall down her arms onto the bed. She couldn’t see his expression, but his silence said enough.
“The only thing I know right now is you’re playing with fire.”
“Nobody said you had to stand around and watch.”
“Was that an invitation?”
She smirked and turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “To leave, yes.”
Those shrewd eyes of his narrowed on her, and her skin instantly pebbled. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was an invitation after all.
“As much as you would like that, I’ll be spending the night tonight.”
Despite the way her teeth clenched, Ginger’s nipples tingled and swelled, telling an altogether different story.
Hearing Garrick’s boots hit the floor, she realized he was serious. Pulling the nightgown on, she finished removing the rest of her clothing and climbed into bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked when she saw him approaching the bed.
Garrick’s feathery brows knit together. “To sleep.”
“Not in here you’re not.” Taking the spare pillow, she tossed it at him. He grabbed it mid-air, his eyes never leaving her. “If you insist on staying here, you get the couch.”
Lips thinning, Garrick regarded her. “So, it’s like that, is it?”
She lifted her chin. “It’s like that.”
“All right, babe. You can have your way…tonight.”
Ginger’s lips parted on a reply, but he was already gone. Was that a threat or a promise he’d just issued? Sinking down, Ginger stared at the ceiling…and lost a whole lot of sleep while attempting to figure that out.
***
It was the commotion that woke Ginger up. More specifically, the voices. All of them were male, and the only words she could make out clearly were clever insults and colorful curses.
It didn’t take her long to recognize who they belonged to. The question was, why were they in her home?
Groggy, Ginger threw back the duvet and slid off the bed until her bare feet hit the cold faux wood flooring. With every step, the stiffness in her healing soles loosening, she woke up a little more, so by the time she reached the living room, she was able to fully process the scene.
“What’s going on in here?”
Her living room and kitchen were full of leather clad bikers. All of them were Spartans. All of them held a beer in their hand. All except the ones in her kitchen—the source of all the cussing.
“Fucking piece of shit. Do they even still make these?” That was from Country.
“Shoulda been outlawed thirty years ago. How hasn’t she blown herself to kingdom come yet?” That from Taco. “Hand me that wrench.”
Garrick selected the one he needed and passed it off. “She says the landlord won’t do shit about it.” He sounded irritated.
Hell, so was she. Ignoring the other men, who hadn’t even noticed her, Ginger walked up to the counter and stood between two of the three barstools. She stared holes into the side of Garrick’s head, waiting patiently for him to notice her.
“You should have a word with him,” Country responded, his tone equally low and pissed off.
“Doesn’t want me to.”
“Just say the word. We’ll take care of it then,” Taco offered. “There.” He stood up and stepped to the side, then each of them went in and grabbed a corner and wrenched her stove out of its space like they had something personal against it.
“Hey, hey,” Ginger said with alarm, her hands out in front of her, “what are you doing with that?”
All three men’s heads snapped up as if they were children who’d been caught doing something naughty, but then their eyes scanned her body, and that look was replaced with something else entirely.
Appreciation, Ginger thought. And that’s when she realized she was still in her nightgown, which was, by definition, a negligee, since it was white silk, cut low between her breasts, and barely hit the tops of her thighs.
In a poor attempt at modesty, Ginger folded her arms across her chest.
“You can’t take my stove. I need it to cook,” she informed them.
“You can’t cook on this ancient hunk of metal, sweetheart,” Country drawled. “It’s a wonder you aren’t dead from gas poisoning already.”
“It’s not that bad.”
His eyebrows lifted, and yeah, she had no argument beyond that. It was a death trap. Still, she didn’t have money to replace it, and her landlord already made it clear he wasn’t going to, so she had little recourse.
“Babe,” Garrick’s hardened voice spoke, “go get some clothes on.” His blue eyes cut to the men behind her, and suddenly Ginger felt even more on display, like a slab of meat in a butcher shop window.
But she wasn’t going to let him tell her what to do. He wasn’t her ol’ man, her boss, or anything else.
Looking to Country and Taco, she said, “Unless you plan to buy me a new stove, you’re going to have to put that back.”
“Already take care of,” someone behind her said.
Spinning around, Ginger’s jaw dropped when she saw Moose and a couple other Spartan brothers hauling a shiny new oven through the front door.
Her hands went to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered. As Country and Taco moved past her carrying the old stove out, Moose and the brothers navigated around them to bring the new one in.
Feeling Garrick step up alongside her, Ginger muttered, “It has all its knobs.”
“Yep,” he said with a rare smile in his voice, “and all the burners work too. Told ya I take care of what’s mine.”
Yeah, and she wondered how long it would take him to decide she needed to move out of this dump and into his house. Just then, she didn’t really care. She had a new stove!
It was the work of a few minutes for the men to install the new stove, and then they moved out of the way, clearing out of the kitchen. Ginger couldn’t resist. She had to touch it.
The stove was so clean and shiny, it cast her reflection. Running her hand over the top and across the oven handle, she dreamed of all the things she would cook on and in it—cookies and casseroles and French fries.
Garrick’s warm hands found her hips and his lips touched the back of her neck. “You like it?”
He was a man who kept his promises. Ginger’s eyes misted at that realization, and her words got stuck in her throat. She nodded several times, moved to the point of being unable to speak.
So, she did the next best thing.
Turning around, Ginger grabbed hold of Garrick’s bearded face and yanked his mouth down to hers.