Leslie Kelly - Sultry Escapes - Waking Up to You

“Warming up a little?” he asked.

She had been, sip by sip. Grandfather’s house was old, damp and chilly, and she hoped her suitcase got here soon with her warmer clothes. “Yes, thanks.”

“The nights’ll get warmer soon,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“You’re not from around here?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I moved up from L.A. a few months ago.”

Ahh! The plot thickened. Had he been some kind of gardener to the Hollywood elite? She suspected any number of starlets would have been happy to have him trim their hedges and do some deep planting in their gardens.

“Why?”

“It was just time,” he explained, his expression and tone telling her that was all he was going to say.

Talk about cryptic.

The silence between them resumed, though it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. They both merely sipped their tea, as they had been for the past few minutes. Oliver—that was his name, Oliver, and what a strong, solid, sexy, old-fashioned name it was—had gently pushed her into a chair and insisted on making her some tea. He obviously did know her grandfather well. A cup of Earl Grey was Buddy Frye’s solution to soothe all the ills of the world. Tea had cured Candace’s scraped knees and hurt feelings, broken hearts and hangovers. And now, it had made her finally relax and brought her tension down a few notches.

She wondered if Oliver had adopted the habit from his employer, of if he was a similar type of man—a calm, deliberate man who always seemed to know how to offer comfort in exactly the right way at the right moment. Whatever the reason, like the hug that had gone from sweet to smokin’, it was a nice gesture, one she appreciated.

Of course, she would appreciate it more if the man would put a damn shirt on so she wouldn’t have to keep shoving her eyeballs back in their sockets every time he moved.

Deltoids and pectorals and biceps, oh, my!

The last thing she had expected to find when she’d let herself into her grandfather’s house, which she’d only ever visited once before, was a hunk of masculine sex appeal showing up in the kitchen. Her mother had, indeed, mentioned a groundskeeper when she’d called earlier today. But she hadn’t said anything about a groundskeeper with nearly jet-black hair, thick and wavy and hanging a little long around his stubbled, two-days-past-needing-a-shave jaw. Nothing could have prepared Candace for the dark dreamy eyes, the strong brow, the slashing cheekbones or the powerful body. Absolutely nothing.

She’d met a lot of handsome men in Hollywood. Probably some who were more handsome than Oliver—Tommy among them. But in terms of raw, masculine sex appeal, she’d seen nobody better.

“Better?”

“Not a single one,” she mumbled.

“What?”

Realizing she’d spoken aloud, she quickly backtracked. “Sorry, I mean, I am better. Much. Just tired, that’s all.”

“So, you said you came up from L.A.?”

“Yes. I headed for the airport right after I got my mother’s call. I figured I should come and see how Grandpa was doing myself. I’m really hoping I can handle things so Mom won’t have to fly out here.”

His brow shot up. Knowing he’d been on the receiving end of her mother’s telephone panic, he had to be wondering about that.

“My father had a heart attack two months ago,” she explained. “He needs Mom there with him in Florida. So if I can be here for Buddy and set my mom’s mind at ease about my grandfather, that’s what I’ll do.”

He frowned, encircling his teacup in his hand. “Buddy might be in rehab for weeks.”

Weeks. Well, that wasn’t great, but it was doable. She was an independent contractor and was in between movie projects right now. She’d been asked to submit some preliminary sketches for a depression-era drama that could be a major motion picture in a few years, but that was still in the early stages. She didn’t have the assignment yet, and she could work on the prelims here. Besides, Leo DiCaprio, who was supposed to be starring in the film, was the easiest guy in Hollywood to dress. The only thing that might call her back to Southern California earlier would be her famous—infamous?—engagement.

“I’ll work something out,” she mumbled, wondering how long Tommy would be willing to hold off. She wouldn’t want to announce anything while she was taking care of her grandfather. The last thing the elderly man would need once he got home was reporters and photographers knocking at the door. “I don’t have to be in L.A. right away.”

“What do you do?”

Oh, I’m in the movie business. Costume design. Did you see the last Cameron film? That was me .

That was the standard reply, often said with a slightly superior tone, just because that’s how everybody in L.A. rolled. But she just didn’t feel like playing that game. Not here, in the middle of the night, with a stranger. Not after the day she’d had. “I’m involved with fashion design.”

His eyes didn’t immediately glaze, the way most men’s would. “My sisters would probably love to meet you. I think they were each born holding a copy of Vogue.”

She ran the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup. “Not that kind of fashion. I work for some of the production companies doing costuming.”

He grunted. “Movies, huh?”

Her back stiffened as he reacted just as she’d expected him to. Most people were awed by her connection to Tinseltown. This one, this earthy, swaggering man, just didn’t seem the type. He looked like he could live out some macho, shoot-em-up action film rather than having to sit through one. Of course, what such a man was doing working as a groundskeeper, she had no idea.

“What’s wrong with the movies?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t like films?”

“Sure I do. I just don’t have much respect for the people who make them.”

The vision of him being at the beck and call of some spoiled, rich-bitch movie star popped into her head. She had a hard time envisioning this man taking orders from anyone and wondered if he’d gotten tired of being propositioned by his clients. “Interact with a lot of Hollywood types, do you?”

He eyed her then shifted his gaze away, muttering a cryptic, “Not anymore.”

Meaning, he had once upon a time?

Something suddenly occurred to her, which could explain why he seemed like such a fish out of water. “Wait. Tell me you’re not a method actor up here in the wilds of Northern California getting ready to audition for some back-to-nature film,” she said, horrified at the very idea.

He barked a harsh laugh. “Not likely.” His lips twitching as he lifted his glass, he added, “What about you? Did you come out here all starry-eyed, looking for your big break, and end up shifting gears into costuming when the acting thing didn’t work out?”

“I couldn’t act my way out of a speeding ticket if my car was on fire and the cop who pulled me over was my uncle.”

His brow scrunched. “Why would you drive a burning car?”

“I…what?”

“If the car’s on fire, why would you keep driving it? Why wouldn’t you pull over and get out?”

“Are you always so literal?”

“Do you really have an uncle who’s a cop?”

She growled, low in her throat. Seeing the twinkle in his eye made the growl louder, so she continued the game of Answer a Question with a Question with a question. “Do you always bait strange women?”

“Only women who specialize in death-by-kitchenware.” His tone was deadpan. “And those I make tea for in the middle of the night.”

The faintest hint of his smile made her spine relax a bit. He might not look like he had much of a sense of humor, and his gruff voice sure didn’t sound like it was used much for laughing, but she suspected there lurked a good-humored man beneath the superhot, strongand-silent exterior.