I should leave. I can come back tomorrow and apologize. But instead of doing that, I take another step inside and close the door behind me.
The loft is one big open space, so the only places she can hide are the bathroom or the closet. The sound of running water tells me which location she’s in. I still haven’t installed the doorknobs yet, so there’s a three-inch hole where the knob should be, a sliver of pale-green fabric belonging to Teagan’s shorts visible through the gap.
Her fingers, with perfectly filed nails, appear in that hole, and a moment later the door opens. She startles. “What are you still doing here?”
“I don’t think you’re a wounded bird. That’s not what I wanted to tell you. At first that’s what I thought. You reminded me of the women across the lake.” I cringe at the look of disbelief on her face and rush on to explain. “You’re too perfect, too put together, and then you almost started crying, and I decided you must be like them, and I’d sworn off getting involved with anyone like that again. Because you’re right, I did mow a lot of lawns on the other side of the lake for a couple of years—literally and figuratively. I figured why not, right? They were using me because . . .” I motion to my abs. I don’t even remember where I left my damn shirt. “And I was using them because I didn’t want to get involved with anyone who wanted more from me than orgasms.”
She crosses her arms. “Why?”
“Why what?” I actually have no idea what I said to her. Mostly it was a pile of word vomit I’d like to flush down a toilet.
“Why didn’t you want to get involved with anyone who wanted more from you than orgasms?”
I would like to hear the word orgasm come out of Teagan’s mouth without it being related to the women I used to sleep with. “Because I wasn’t in the headspace for it. I needed uncomplicated.”
But it got really complicated because one of those women, who’d told me she was in the middle of a divorce, hadn’t been quite honest.
Teagan’s staring at me like I have two heads. “I only flirt with women I’m not interested in.”
Her brow furrows. It’s so fucking cute. She has this little button nose that scrunches up when something doesn’t make a lot of sense. Based on the amount of nose scrunching she’s done, not much of what I’ve said so far has made sense.
I want to be honest with her, but the difficult part is letting someone see enough of you without showing them all your ugly truths. I have secrets, the kind I keep buried. Stuff even my mother doesn’t know. But for some reason, I want to know Teagan more than I want to keep her at arm’s length.
“My first impression of you was wrong. I thought you were a pampered, entitled rich girl, but you’re not. I realized that the day I saw you working at the Town Pub, and then again when you managed to do all of this with no help.” I motion to the yellow walls and the wallpaper, which I thought was hella ugly in the hardware store but looks awesome in here. “And you make really fucking amazing muffins. I think you’re incredibly talented and selfless, and I wanted a reason not to like you, but I don’t have any, and I didn’t know what to do with that, so I acted like a donkey.”
“A donkey?”
“An ass. I was an ass.” I adjust the brim of my hat. “I think you’re gorgeous, inside and out.”
Both of her brows are arched. “Okay,” she says slowly, drawing out the word.
“I like you.” I close my eyes and blow out a breath. I don’t think I’ve ever fumbled this much with a woman in my life. It’s a lot easier to get naked and use my mouth for things that don’t include a lot of words. “I’m such an idiot. Why can’t I shut up?”
“Want some help with that?” Her voice is soft and low and very, very close.
My eyes pop open, and Teagan is standing right in front of me, chin tipped up. Her eyes are the color of a cloudless summer sky. She’s not short. I’d guess that she’s close to the same height as Dillion. Maybe even taller. But I’m pushing six feet five, so even the tall women don’t seem all that tall to me. Her long hair is pulled up in a ponytail, wisps of it having come loose, skimming her cheek. Her tongue sweeps out, dragging across her bottom lip. It’s fuller than her top lip, making it look like she’s halfway to pouting when she’s not smiling. And most of the time she’s smiling. Except when I say something asinine. Because I’m a donkey.
“What?” I blink down at her, feeling like the awkward, gangly teen I once was. I don’t know what exactly it is about her that makes me impossibly stupid. Usually I’m disgustingly smooth with women. But with Teagan, I’m a hormonally paralyzed idiot.
She crooks a finger, beckoning me closer. But there’s only six inches separating us. If I take a step forward, my boots will touch her toes. So I bend instead, until my ear is next to her lips, like I’m waiting for her to tell me a secret.
For a moment I consider the fact that I’ve been up and down the stairs to the loft at least a dozen times. The only air circulation in here is from a portable fan, so I’ve been sweating and shirtless for several hours. I might not smell all that fresh.
But that thought disappears when her fingertips drag along my collarbone and I feel the warmth of her breath at the edge of my jaw.
“Aaron.”
Her palm wraps around the back of my neck. So soft. So warm.
I swallow and grind out, “I’m listening.”
Her thumb finds that spot between my ear and my jaw, and she presses, gently at first and then more firmly. Her lips brush the shell of my ear, and she whispers, “Look at me.”
I feel like a marionette, and she’s pulling all my strings. I turn my head toward her, and her lips brush across my cheek, sending a hot shiver down my spine, lighting me up like a pinball machine.
Teagan Firestone is a dangerous woman. Sweet, beautiful, broken, and yet . . . bold and resilient. She’s a lethal combination, and it’s all compounded when those soft lips meet mine.
I don’t even know what’s happening. Well, I know. I’m kissing her. Or she’s kissing me. She definitely started it.
It’s like an explosion. Like an entire warehouse of firecrackers igniting at the same time. I groan into her mouth and wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me.
Our tongues tangle, and her other hand grips my biceps, sliding up and over my shoulder. She knocks my hat off my head, and it drops to the floor behind me. And then both of her hands are in my hair, sliding through the damp strands, gripping at the crown, angling my head farther to the side. Deepening the kiss.
Dragging it out.
Our tongues battle and then soften, find a rhythm that’s slightly less frantic. She sighs and moans, hips starting to roll, like she’s dancing to a song only she can hear.
In a moment of clarity, I feel around behind me and flick the lock on the door. She startles and bites my tongue. With our mouths still connected, she walks me backward across the room, toward her bed.
I feel the mattress against my calves.
She pushes on my chest, breaking the kiss. She’s not physically strong enough to knock me over. Maybe with a roundhouse kick or a knee to the balls, she could bring me to my knees. But I fall back on the bed, propping myself up on my elbows, legs spread wide, erection making itself known against the fly of my jeans.