Bedwrecker(28)

Even through the heavy raindrops I can see him standing across from me in nothing but a pair of those damn tight-fitting, black boxer briefs. The twin pair to the ones I’m wearing right now.

Shit!

Two or three inches over six feet, he is so leanly muscled that I can see his veins, his tendons, the ridges of his abs, the jut of his hip bones, and even the ligaments running under his skin.

Barefoot like me, just as unclothed as me, I have to bite my bottom lip to stop my tongue from sneaking out and licking it at the sight.

I hate him.

I hate him.

I hate him.

Yes, I have to remind myself of that fact.

Wouldn’t you?

Rain puddles at my feet as my dignity wars with my outrage. I don’t need his help. I don’t need him here. I don’t need him at all.

I.

DO.

NOT!

“I got it,” I grit through my teeth, yanking the table back with all my strength.

He remains as silent as he had last night, and the only noise is that of the bottles rolling across the glass of the tabletop. At lightning speed he reaches to grab them and stop them from shattering at our feet.

Watching, I draw in a ragged breath. I hate to admit how good he looks. Muscles rope around his wrists, his arms, his shoulders, his chest. And damn him, with each and every movement he makes, his abdominal muscles flex and release in the sexiest way.

As he bends to lay the bottles on the paved bricks of the patio, the wind rolls them out from under our feet, and we both let them go.

The same wind, now so cold, rips through me. I continue trying to drag the table and he continues to pull it away from me. He’s such an asshole. I bite down to stop my teeth from chattering, and say through my clenched jaw, “I said I got it.”

Again, he says nothing.

The silence between us is unbearable. It feels thicker, colder, and more dangerous than the storm lashing the two of us. The push-and-pull comes to an end when the table is completely out of my grip.

Hefting it up, he hauls the heavy iron table toward the house and begins to lower it into the space I left open beside the chairs.

Once he has set it down, he braces himself on it, his shoulders sagging, his head hanging low. Even under the awning, drops of rain splatter his face, his chest, his legs. “I’m sorry,” he says over the howl of the wind and the rumble of the thunder.

Standing completely still in the rain, I draw in breath after breath of the stormy air, but even out in the open I feel like I’m suffocating.

Keen starts to walk toward me with raindrops slipping down his face, and then dripping from his chin. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

Shaking my head, refusing to accept his I’m sorry, I take a cautious step back and will my entire body to stop its trembling and for my stomach to cease flipping just because my name left his lips.

I really do hate him.

And it’s all his fault.

“Maggie.” He reaches for me and I step out of his reach, leaving his hands pushing at air.

Rain makes tracks down his face, and mine. The drops on mine, though, hide the tears that slip unwillingly from my eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I shout. “It was a one-night stand. It didn’t mean anything. Forget about it. I already have.”

My words cause him to flinch, like that is supposed to mean anything to me. What? Did I bruise his precious ego? Good, I hope I did. He takes another step closer. “That’s not true, and you know it.”

“Isn’t it?” I shout.

“Maggie.”

More with my name. I can’t take it, and flee without thought out the gate and around to my bedroom doors.

Pulling as hard as I can, I can’t get them to open. Crap. Crap. Crap. The wind is too strong, the doors are too old, and my heart is too fragile for this, although I’d never admit that out loud to anyone.

Step by cautious step, I ease away from my house. The waves in the ocean are so high that their sound almost surpasses that of the thunder as it roars overhead.

“Maggie!” The wind whips Keen’s voice away from me, but I still hear it.

Dramatics have never really been my thing, and although I have been told I am dramatic, still that’s not what I’m going for now. I just honestly can’t be near him.

“Get back here! Where are you going? Are you crazy?” Keen yells.

Now, crazy—that, too, I have been called before. Still, I’m not on my way to crazy town or anything, I’m just going to see Makayla, my best friend, who I have yet to tell about my night with Keen, and I have no intention of bothering to tell her now.

She calms me, and I need that, because for some inexplicable reason I find myself still very much attracted to him, even after what he did.

And that is completely unacceptable.

Pushing against the wind is harder than it should be, and the sand flying in my eyes causes me to slip on a pile of seaweed I hadn’t seen.