Chapter Four
Ryder had intended on staying away from Sophie Kincaid for at least the next couple days because despite their antagonistic sparring, he hadn’t missed the chemistry between them. She liked arguing with him, and he sure as hell liked arguing with her. When it had been just the two of them standing in the living room, the sexual tension had buzzed like a live electrical wire.
The old him would have backed her against a wall and put all that heat to good use, but he’d turned over a new leaf, and acting rashly wasn’t part of the package. Besides, with that fiery temper of hers, she’d probably kill him. Although he suspected it would be worth it.
But the way he figured it, putting his new tenant on her back less than twenty-four hours after he’d said hello probably wasn’t a smart move. He had to live next door to her, and this was a small town. Used to a big city like Chicago, she might think she could avoid him, but he knew that was impossible.
There’d be no escaping the little blond firecracker, and being attracted to her wasn’t a good enough reason to have sex with her and make things awkward. After the fiasco back home, he’d stopped making mistakes like Sophie.
So after he’d left her house, as he’d lain in bed, waiting for the adrenaline from the night to wash away and for sleep to claim him, he’d decided to stop whatever game they were playing. It was best to treat her like a proper neighbor and stay away from her as much as possible.
That plan went straight to hell about thirty seconds after he woke up to her cursing in the backyard.
He blinked his eyes open, glanced at the clock. It was nine a.m. He’d slept straight through the day and into the next morning, which didn’t surprise him considering the last couple of days he’d had.
He heard a loud bang, followed by an exasperated female mutter. His bedroom was in the back corner of his house, closest to Sophie’s yard. He reached over and lifted up the corner of his blackout shades to see her. Blond hair pulled back in a ponytail again, she wore tiny gray cotton shorts and a white tank top that made her look like a sexy, wholesome girl fantasy come to life.
She was trying to get the garage door open.
He smiled as she shoved against the side entrance. She was doing it all wrong. The harder she tried to force it, the more stuck it would become. He flipped the shade back down and put his hands behind his head.
The last thing he should do was go out there. And if he did go out there, it should be to help her, not taunt her.
“Goddamn it to hell!” she yelled, making him laugh.
Yeah, screw that.
He got out of bed. After putting on some coffee, he went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, ran a hand through his hair, and threw on some gym shorts. He grabbed his cup and went out to the back.
At the sound of the screen door slamming shut, her head shot up and she whirled to face him. She planted her hands on her small hips, her chest a rapid rise and fall from exertion.
Christ, she was a hot little thing.
He raised his mug to her. “Morning, Sophie.”
“I am not asking you for help.” Her voice was loud and indignant.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then he settled himself on top of his picnic table to enjoy the show, taking a sip of coffee and letting the caffeine work its way through his system.
She stared at him.
He stared right back.
Next spring he planned on tearing down the house where Sophie stayed and building one big house that covered both lots so there was no fence between the two yards. When the lease ran out on his last tenants he’d told them he wasn’t going to let them renew, and since nobody wanted a seven-month lease he’d planned on letting the house sit empty. Sophie had fallen right into his lap, and as they faced off Ryder couldn’t figure out if that was a blessing or a curse.
She narrowed her eyes on him. “I knew you’d be ridiculous.”
“I’m afraid you lost me.”
She waved a hand over him. “Look at you with your abs and tats. You shouldn’t be allowed out of the house.”
He chuckled. “You don’t like it, darlin’, don’t look.”
She shook her head. “You’re the absolute worst.”
He put the cup down on the table and sat back, resting on his palms. The early May air was warm, the sun bright. Her eyes traveled the length of his bare chest, and she scowled at the tattoo on his shoulder and the one on his rib cage before shooting daggers at his stomach.
The corners of his mouth tilted as he repressed his grin. He kept in shape; he wasn’t going to apologize.
Suddenly, her expression clouded and she ripped her gaze away, crossing her arms over her chest. She jutted her chin toward the garage door. “Do you happen to have one of those clicky things?”
He let the smile spread over his lips. “You mean a garage door opener?”
“Yes.”
“Nope.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip before saying, “It’s manual.”
She pointed to the two-seater Porsche convertible. “You mean I’m supposed to get out of my car and open the door ... by hand?”
“Or you could keep your car in the driveway.” He offered helpfully.
Her hand waved at her car. “You expect me to keep my baby in the driveway?”
He studied the Porsche and had to admit it was a cool car. It wasn’t white and wasn’t beige, but kind of a muted white tan color that probably had some name that eluded him. The creamy color highlighted the red leather seats and matching steering wheel. The combination was a surprise, unexpected, much like the woman in front of him trying very hard to work on her temper.
He shrugged. “It’s an option.”
“It’s not an option.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to get out of the car and open the garage door.”
She shook her head. “I’m in hell. You’re the devil. And this is my punishment for all my misdeeds. That’s the only logical explanation.”
He let his gaze take a slow, lazy lap over her body before saying, “Confess your sins, darlin’, and maybe you can still be saved.”
She sucked in a breath and heat flared between them before she frowned, all fierce and defiant. “Your dumb nicknames are getting redundant.”
But they were effective. Despite her protests. He laughed. “Do you want me to show you how to open the door?”
She stared at him, her expression one of disbelief, as though she couldn’t figure out how he could be such an idiot. Suddenly her features cleared and she got a sweet, bright smile on her lips. “No, no, that won’t be necessary.”
All the fine hairs on the back of his neck rose as she flashed him another brilliant smile before marching into the house.
He kept an eye on the back door, wondering what on earth she planned, having more fun this morning than he’d had in the last year.
After about five minutes she walked outside, carrying a sledgehammer over her shoulder.
“Now, Sophie,” he said, getting up from the table. “Let’s be reasonable.”
She ignored him.
And before he could even get out another argument, calm as could be she went to the side door, swung, and smashed the door handle with a resounding crack.
The knob fell to the ground and she sighed happily before putting the hammer down and resting it against the garage. She pushed open the door and called out, “I’m in.”
He shook his head. Thankfully, she faced away from him and couldn’t see his huge grin. “Are you going to pay for that?”
“Yep.” She walked into the garage. “Have a nice day, sweetie.”
He laughed.
Yep, no doubt about it. Sophie Kincaid was nothing but trouble.
* * *
Somehow she’d managed to avoid Ryder for the rest of the day. Okay, she managed to avoid talking to him. Looking at him was a different matter entirely.
Oh sure, she’d made sure not to occupy the same air space as him, playing a game she was positive he was onto. When he was inside, she did work outside, and when he was outside, she went in.
But every time she heard the slam of his door she’d run to the window to look. Oh dear Lord, did she look.
Yesterday, she’d thought him ridiculously, eye-rollingly hot, but without a shirt, Ryder Moore should be outlawed. The man was completely ripped, in the very best way. And those tats. God, when she’d seen them this morning, highlighted by the sun, she’d about fainted with lust.
They were her weakness.
See, she had a secret. Yes, she’d reformed herself from a troubled rebellious teenager who’d had far too much freedom. Yes, she wore designer clothes, went to the best clubs, and drank trendy twenty-dollar cocktails. And yes, she went on dates with successful, nice, professional men. She did everything a responsible woman of thirty-one was supposed to do.
But deep down, it was men like Ryder that really flipped her switch. Men she could go toe-to-toe with. Men that would give her a run for her money. Men she didn’t have to be nice to or sweet with. Men that picked you up, tossed you over their shoulder, and had their politically incorrect way with you.
Bad men so cocky you couldn’t help screwing in the bathroom an hour after you met them. Men that fucked so good they became an addiction.
The kind of men healthy women grew out of because they were nothing but trouble.
Ryder was that kind of man. She’d sensed it the second she’d met him and known for certain the moment their eyes had locked as he handed over his keys.
Yes, she sold her inability to keep a boyfriend as being picky ... and she was picky, because the respectable men she was supposed to like bored her to tears. She just couldn’t get excited about a guy that wanted to wake up early to get to Home Depot on Saturday.
She supposed someday she’d grow up and like the men she was supposed to, but Ryder had proved that today wasn’t that day.
She took a sip of iced tea and sat on the porch swing, gently rocking it with her foot as she took in the quiet tree-lined street.
Why did he have to have tattoos? God, she loved ink. One scrolled across his right shoulder, bold and black, in an intricate pattern, and the other was along his rib cage and spelled “freedom.” She wanted to lick them. Trace every single letter and curve with her tongue.
It was the worst.
If it was just his looks, she could handle it, but there was something far worse, far more dangerous than him being hotter than hell. She liked fighting with him. Like, really liked it. She was pretty certain grown women weren’t supposed to get turned on by arguing, but Sophie couldn’t help but love a good battle. There must be something wrong with her that when a man brought her flowers on a first date she had to repress the eye roll, and a man that fought with her made her want to jump him. She was messed up, she understood that and had paid the price.
A long time ago, she’d learned to ignore her urges, which actually wasn’t that difficult. The kind of men that were her weakness didn’t exactly grow on trees. Somewhere along the way she’d grown complacent in the fact that most men couldn’t pull it out the way she needed. She’d made the mistake of thinking she was over it.
She gritted her teeth and shook her head.
It was like she was cursed. Ryder was her neighbor, her landlord, and she didn’t like him. Well, she didn’t like him the way she was supposed to. She didn’t get it. In Chicago, a city with millions of people, she couldn’t even find a man she wanted to date, let alone have sex with. But two minutes in Revival and her neighbor was a fucking god who was annoying as hell, and happened to push every single one of her bad girl, perverted buttons? How unfair was that?
It was so unfortunate. Obviously, she couldn’t act on it.
How hard could it be? She’d managed to avoid him all morning, and thankfully he’d taken off on his motorcycle an hour ago. There was no sign of him.
Had he gone to a girlfriend’s house for dinner? Not that it was any of her business.
What if he had a girlfriend? He’d clearly been out all night yesterday. Wasn’t a girlfriend the logical reason? But things had definitely sparked between them, so if he was in a relationship, how serious could it be?
She shook her head. It. Did. Not. Matter.
Enough of this. She stood and the swing bounced. She had things to do. It was Friday. She had two days to get this house together and settle in before she started her job with the city of Revival on Monday.
She needed to get out of the house for a bit. She walked in and grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter. First stop on the list, buy a proper, functioning door for the garage to replace the one she’d broken.
She smiled. Smashing that door had been so immensely satisfying, made even more so by the sound of Ryder’s surprised laughter.
Which was why she was staying far away from him.
* * *
Two hours later she flew down the highway, top down on the best car in the entire world, listening to “Mama’s Broken Heart” by Miranda Lambert and singing at the top of her lungs. She’d gone to the store, picked out a new door, bought a tape measure, and gone back home, because apparently all doors aren’t the same, measured said door, then returned to the store.
It would be delivered tomorrow morning, and the guy would even install it for her. See, she didn’t need one bit of Ryder’s help.
Just as she hit the curve on the road and Miranda started singing about hiding your crazy, she flew past a car going the opposite direction, realizing too late it had the word “sheriff” scrolled in white along the side.
Her gaze flew to her speedometer, which read ninety-five. She eased off the gas and started praying, watching the cop car get farther away in her rearview mirror.
Please don’t pull me over. Please don’t pull me over. Please, please, please.
Just as she thought she was safe, the car did a U-turn and the lights started flashing.
Shit!
Heart pounding, she slowed down and eased to the side of the road. Was it too early to throw Charlie’s name around?
Charlie Radcliff was the county sheriff, this cop’s boss, and they were friends. Didn’t that mean she automatically got out of tickets? Would that even work? Okay, she’d feel out the cop and make a decision on the fly on whether to drop Charlie’s name. Besides, she was good at talking her way out of trouble; maybe it wouldn’t even be necessary.
She came to a stop and the car pulled in back of her. Even if she didn’t drop Charlie’s name, she had a ready plan for handling the police. She was always prepared with her license and registration. She was extremely nice, cheery, and full of bright smiles. She never made excuses, was apologetic, and took full responsibility for her actions.
It got her out of tickets nine times out of ten.
While the cop got out of the car, Sophie busied herself getting out her license, registration, and current insurance card. She managed to get it all together and fix most of her brilliant smile on her lips as the shadow fell across her car.
“I’m so sorry, Officer,” she said in her most sunny voice as she turned to the man in uniform. She looked up—and up and up.
The smile fell away as she stared into a pair of mirrored sunglasses and the face of her nightmares.
“You!”
Ryder cocked a grin. “Me.”
No way. She glared at him. “There’s no way you’re a cop.”
“But I am. Chief deputy sheriff, to be exact.”
She could only stare at him in complete horror. “This has got to be a joke. I don’t believe you. Let me see your badge.”
He shook his head and took out a black leather case, flipping it open and handing it to her. “What, do you think I rented a uniform, complete with cop car, on the off chance I’d spot you on the road and could pull you over?”
Okay, that did sound ridiculous. But still, how in the hell could Ryder be a cop? What kind of justice was there in this world? She studied the title under his name and handed it back, ignoring his barb. “What exactly is a chief deputy sheriff?”
He flashed her that wicked grin. “It means I’m the sheriff’s second in command.”
Why? Why is this happening to me? Stupidly, she sputtered, “But that’s impossible.”
Between Charlie and Ryder, the women in this town had to be begging to get arrested. Her mind instantly filled with a fantasy of late-night traff ic stops on deserted roads, being handcuffed and pushed facedown on the hood, legs spread.
She shook it away. This was not the time.
“Afraid not.” He put his arm on the edge of her window. “Do you know how fast you were going, darlin’?”
Oh God, this was some brand-new fresh version of hell.