Leslie Kelly - Sultry Escapes - Waking Up to You

“You sleep okay?” he asked as he walked over, already knowing the answer to his question.

“Sleep? What’s that? I feel like the princess from the fairy tale, only there wasn’t a pea under the mattress, there were cantaloupes the size of my head.”

“I don’t think your grandfather has had a chance to redecorate. A lot of the furniture came with the house, so it’s probably pretty old.”

“Who owned it before? Fred Flintstone?”

He couldn’t contain a chuckle. “The house was built by an old silent movie star, and it remained in his family for several decades until it fell into ruin. He supposedly threw some wild parties with his Hollywood buddies.”

“Huh…my kingdom for a Westin heavenly bed. I’d rather be comfortable than sleep on the mattress that once held Charlie Chaplin.” She winced and rubbed her shoulder. “And still might, given the bony lumps inside it.”

The old Oliver, the one who’d once been young and carefree and had done killer impressions that cracked up his sisters, might have tottered side to side and swung an invisible cane.

The new Oliver—hardened by the things he’d seen, the things he’d done —barely even remembered that idealistic guy.

“Ready?”

“Sure.”

She stepped into the passenger seat of the beat-up old truck as he got in behind the wheel and together, they headed toward the hospital. He could feel her tension and her anticipation. She sat forward on her seat, as if urging the old bucket of rust to go faster.

“Would you sit still?” he grumbled. “Visiting hours don’t even start until eight.”

“If we keep going negative-two miles an hour, we won’t be there until it’s time for Grandpa to go in for his surgery.”

“If we were going negative-two miles an hour, we’d be going backward.”

She smirked. “Now you’re just being silly.”

Unaccustomed to being called anything of the sort, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel.

“So how did you end up working for my grandfather?”

His grip grew even tighter. “I was just wandering. We ran into each other and he told me he was looking for help to get the old place up and running. Lucky for me, I had some time and experience.”

His experience with grounds keeping had been limited to his lawn-cutting business during high school. But that had been enough for Buddy, who, he suspected, had hired him because he wanted the company as much as Oliver’s strong back. And it had helped that Oliver was connected to the estate. He also suspected Buddy had sensed Oliver needed to be there, to work hard, not think and stay away from most of the world.

The old man had asked him if he was a criminal hiding out from the law. When Oliver had sworn he was not, they’d shaken hands and that had been that. Four months later, after studying everything he could find on the wine business, Oliver had calluses on his blisters, muscles in places he’d never known he’d needed them and the beginnings of a clear head.

“Sorry, but you just don’t look much like a gardener,” she said, obviously realizing he was prevaricating.

He cast her a sideways glance and let a faint smile lift the corner of his mouth. “You don’t look much like a fashion designer, either.”

Instead of taking offense, she barked a laugh and lifted a hand to her sopping ponytail. “Touché. I know I’m a mess. Aside from the horrible bed, a cricket kept chirping somewhere inside the house. And the water in the shower ranged from cold to frigid.”

“Devastating,” he murmured.

She continued, “There’s not a hair dryer in sight, because, of course, Grandpa doesn’t need one. I almost stuck my head over the stove but figured that might be pushing it.”

“Knowing how dangerous things tend to happen when you’re in a kitchen, that was probably a good call. And we don’t want to tax rescue services with a call about a fire. They were already out here once this week.”

“Did I mention that the airline misplaced my big suitcase? I only had my carry-on, which is why I’m wearing the old clothes that my sister left here when she came to visit a year ago.”

Judging by the clothes, the sister was a different type of dresser altogether.

“We can run by a store later if you need to shop,” he said.

“If the airline doesn’t show up with my things within a couple of days, I might have to take you up on that. I had the basic necessities in my carry-on, but I’ll be out of stuff pretty soon.”

“Are you really going to stick around for a while?” he asked, wondering if she truly intended to stay for weeks. Man, he hoped not. He was supposed to be enjoying a retreat from the real world. But this talkative, beautiful woman had brought it crashing in on him like the winds of a hurricane.

“Maybe. I’m between projects and was supposed to be going out of town for a couple of weeks anyway,” she said, crossing her arms and leaning against her window to look out at the passing scenery. “This isn’t exactly France, though.”

“You were going to France?”

She nodded but didn’t look over.

“Why would it have been better if you’d met me there?”

She jerked and swung around to stare at him. “What?”

“You said that last night.”

She bit that succulent bottom lip.

He prodded her. “Your exact words were, I believe, ‘Why, oh, God, why, didn’t I meet you in Paris?’”

She huffed. “Jeez, what are you, a transcriptionist?”

“I have a very good memory.”

“Obviously.”

“So?”

“So what?”

She was obviously trying to deflect, and he considered letting her get away with it. But something about that sad face and those slumped shoulders made him want to rile her up a little. He’d been raised with sisters, so he knew that nothing worked better to get them out of a sad slump than giving them something to be mad about.

“So, why would it have been better if you’d met me in Paris?”

“I was hysterical. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“Not that hysterical. As I recall, you were pretty damned calm at that point. Sedate even.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Shall we talk about how you were at that point?”

Hell, if she thought he was going to apologize for getting a hard-on when he’d had a gorgeous woman in his arms, she had another think coming. “I have a Y chromosome. And you’re beautiful.”

Her bluff having been called, she looked away.

“Paris,” he reminded her.

Crossing her arms over her chest and harrumphing, she said, “I just meant if I was going to end up in some hot guy’s arms this week, it should have been in the city of light, not in my grandfather’s kitchen.”

He made a mental note of the hot , wondering if she even realized she’d just revealed a little more about her thoughts of last night.

Casting him an arch look, she added, “By the way, it could have been any guy’s arms.”

“Hot.”

“What?”

“You said any hot guy’s arms.”

“It’s like I’m riding with a digital voice recorder.”

“Like I said. Good memory.”

“The point is, I was just speaking in general terms about how a run-down old kitchen can’t compare to the most romantic city in the world. That’s all.”

He wasn’t buying it. “Didn’t sound that way.”

“Would you stop interrogating me?”

There was fire in her eyes now, and color in her cheeks. Indignation wafted from her, and he congratulated himself on getting her mind off her troubles. Let her be annoyed at him, and engage in a little verbal sparring. At least it would be a few minutes less she spent worrying about her obviously deeply loved grandfather.