"He's lucky," the firefighter says. "So are you. He woke up in time. But he apparently tried to put it out himself, which wasn't smart. Probably didn't try to call the fire department because he was drunk. The Saint boy over there was driving by and saw it, jumped in to help. He called us. You're lucky he was going by. This whole place could have gone up in flames, you know. It’s been dry out here, with it being Fall and all.”
I'm trying to process what he's saying, all the while the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach growing more insistent. At least no one was hurt.
The Saint boy.... the firefighter's words echo in my head. That's the asshole who was yelling at me.
That's the guy with the ice-blue eyes, the one who sent a crackle of electricity running through my spine when he stood close to me.
Of course, that was before he opened his big freaking mouth.
Olivia leans over in my arm, and lets out a loud howl, and the firefighter shrugs. "You want to take care of her? All this smoke out here isn’t good for her anyway."
"Thank you." I make my way inside, and set Olivia down on the hardwood floor as soon as we get in the house. She toddles forward a few unsteady steps before the screen door even shuts behind me, and I follow her down the hallway, grateful for the silence.
The reprieve is short lived. The knock on the door echoes loudly, and I look over my shoulder, exhaling heavily as soon as I see who it is. "You again?" I ask. "You didn't get enough of an opportunity to yell at me already?"
He stands just outside the door. "Hey," he calls. "I think we got off on the wrong foot."
Olivia is babbling as she makes her way down the hall away from me, and I say, "No kidding," under my breath as I go after her. I don't have time to stand there and socialize at the front door, not with this kid on the move. I follow Olivia into the living room, where she heads straight for her favorite toy, a bouncer she used to love to sit inside. Now she just likes to stand beside it, hanging on with one hand for balance while she spins the toys lining the top.
He clears his throat, and when I turn around, he's standing there, his palms in the air. "I'm not a creep or something," he says.
"You mean, just because you yelled at me in front of my toddler and then followed me into my house?" I ask, my hand on my hip. I'm keeping my voice calm, so I don't startle Olivia, but really, isn't this the beginning of an episode of one of those true crime shows?
"You turned around and walked away," he says.
"Most people would wait to be invited inside." There’s just something about this guy. He’s so damn… arrogant. I've never met anyone I immediately disliked so much at first sight.
"Most people would thank the person who saved their fuc --"
"Stop swearing in front of my kid!"
"Shit," he says, and his face colors. "Lady, I just saved your damn orchard. You should be thanking me, not giving me grief."
"Yeah, excuse me if I don’t express my gratitude for you barging into my house and yelling at me.”
"I'm not yelling." He lets out a heavy exhale, then looks down at the ground before he runs his hand through his hair. "Fuck."
I groan. "You’re purposely trying to make me angry, right?"
He looks up at me with those blue eyes of his, and a shiver runs up my spine. "I'm not trying," he says. And then he gives me this crooked, cocky-as-hell grin. "But I'll admit that it's an extra perk. You're kind of cute angry."
"Are you trying to flirt with me?" I ask, appalled.
He laughs. "I said kind of cute," he says. "Not bowl-me-over hot."
"You're kind of a dick." The words come out before I even think to censor myself. Damn it.
Now he laughs harder, and looks at me with one eyebrow raised. "Five minutes after meeting me, and you’re already talking about my d-i-c-k?" He spells it out, obviously for Olivia's benefit.
"That is not what I'm talking about." Of course, as soon as he mentions it, I can't not think about it. What the hell is wrong with me?
But he just laughs and holds out his hand. "Luke Saint," he says. "At your service."
CHAPTER THREE
Luke
She looks at my hand and for a second, I think she's not going to shake it. Damn, this chick is wound tight. She's also hot as hell. I wasn't kidding when I said she was cute when she was angry. Except that "cute" isn't exactly the word for it. She's definitely not cute.
The fiery red hair that tumbles down her shoulders fits her personality just right. I have the sudden impulse to reach out and run my hands through it, but something tells me she'd probably kick me in the nuts if I did. I think she'd be wild in bed.
She's not wearing a wedding band – that's the first thing I check, out of instinct. The way she's wound so tight tells me she hasn't been laid in a while either.
Too bad about the kid. I don't get mixed up with moms, that's for sure. I might think MILFs are hot, but I'm a look and don't touch kind of guy when it comes to them. Single moms have baggage. They're clingers. They'll say they want a fling, but they don't. They want a relationship. And then you're stuck.
And I'm not a relationship kind of guy. One night is all I need. So this chick is off the table. Which is really too bad, because I bet she's great in the sack.
"Stop staring at me," she says, huffing.