Just Fooling Around(35)

“We got cut off before I could give Scott the address. If he were more resourceful, maybe he’d reason it out, but God bless him, he’s not the brightest tool. We usually just call him Tool, in fact.”

“I think you’re stuck,” she announced, folding her arms over her chest, and his amused gaze drifted lower, touching on the perfectly adequate curve of her breasts. It was as if he could see through her crossed arms, see through the heavy flannel, see through every bulletproof (literally) defense she had ever designed.

A perilous tingle slid down her body, a tingle that had nothing to do with temperature, and her nipples tightened into buds.

Seeing the very visible proof of her discomfort, he smiled, a cocky, pilot’s smile accustomed to wrangling gravity and seducing women while weighted down with a ball and chain. Prudently Devon reminded herself that there was no insurance policy on her vagina.

“Do you have a car?” he asked.

“No,” she lied because she never drove on April 1. Ever. Even if the insurance company allowed it, she wouldn’t.

“What about the Ford that’s parked in the garage?”

“I don’t have a Ford in the garage,” she lied.

Chance pointed to the keys that hung on the hook next to the door, and the big keyring labelled “FORD”.

“That sure does look like car keys to me, hanging right there next to the door, exactly where any person with a lick of brains would put them. My ex-girlfriend, she was always losing her keys, and I told her that she should rig up something like that so she wouldn’t forget. We broke up because I just couldn’t handle dating a bubblehead. You don’t look like a bubblehead. Now, I understand that you wouldn’t want to go out in this weather. Hell, neither would I, but that would leave me here, dripping all over your very clean living room, coating this newly waxed floor with water and muddy ooze, and you don’t look like a woman who’s comfortable with ooze.”

“I wouldn’t have to be comfortable with the ooze if you sat outside all night,” she explained.

“Or alternatively, why don’t you drive me home?” he asked, in that sweetly, coaxing voice as if she were some brainless female that would roll over and play “America’s Next Ho” at his command.

It was a testament to his physical appeal that both possibilities were not out of the question.

“I’m not driving in the storm,” she insisted, shoring up the remainder of her defenses.

“Then, as you said, I’m stuck,” he told her, leaning back against the wall, completely at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings. His hands were jammed deep in his pockets, the prototypical male pose designed to accentuate the male package. As if she would fall for such a primitive ritual designed to show off a man’s mating prowess. She would not look, would not look.

Devon looked.

At the sight of the large denim-encased bulge, Devon swallowed, and something swollen and throbbing thrust inside her. An unbidden fantasy of sex with this man and his…swollen, throbbing sex.

Outside, while the elements raged, a tree branch crashed against the window, shaking the unbreakable glass. The branch was an ominous sign, reminding her of the last time she’d had sex on April Fools’ Day. Peter Hollowell had ended up with a bee sting on his privates. A swollen and throbbing bee sting.

Devon pushed all thoughts of sex aside and collapsed into the nearest chair. “Do you want to sit down?”

“I don’t want to drip all over your furniture.”

“I use Scotchgard.”

“Still, I can stand,” he answered, completely nonplussed, breathing completely even, the broad planes of his chest falling up and down. The soaked fabric clung like a second skin, lovingly caressing the hard textures of his body.

Her fingers curled into fists. Tight, non-caressing fists. “I have some sweats you could probably wear. My brother’s. If you want something dry.” Something that wasn’t quite so…stimulating.

He raised his right leg. “I don’t think I could get anything past this without divine intervention.”

“A hacksaw would do the trick. I have one.”

His mouth drifted to a lazy grin, an easygoing expression that didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “A hacksaw? Who are you? Some sort of engineer?”

“I’m an actuary,” she replied. “But I believe in tools.” Locks without keys were pretty common in her experience. From there, a hacksaw seemed like a no-brainer.

He looked skeptical, but didn’t call her a liar. “As long as your hand’s steady, I’m willing to give it a go.”





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