Into. Straight into. With impetus.
In the darkness, with the shadows of early morning broken only by the pale lights from the house, she walked right into him. She nearly screamed, as her overnight bag fell on his feet. One of the tins of cookies she had been carrying went flying. Her coffee cup, held in the same hand as her keys, was violently jostled, sending the hot liquid flying over both of them.
“Shit!”
“Shit!”
He was wearing a short-sleeved, open denim shirt, so the coffee hit his flesh. He swore—an instinctive response to being scalded. When he swore, she swore. She felt herself being steadied and stepped back quickly, still wondering if she should scream like the bloody blazes. But apparently he offered her no threat.
He looked something like a large, toned beach bum.
“What the fu—hell!” she stuttered.
“Yeah, what the hell?” he repeated, brushing at his chest, where her coffee had spattered. “I’m looking for Nick.”
“At this time of the morning?”
“Excuse me, but he told me to come at ‘this time of the morning.’”
The man was definitely aggravated. A friend of Nick’s, huh? She took another step back, frowning as she eyed him. Could be. She’d seen him before. Not all that often. He wasn’t one of the guys who sat around the bar, sharing their lives as they played armchair football during the Sunday games. Quieter. Actually, he had seemed like the brooding, silent type, the few times she had seen him. Dress him up differently and he could be Heathcliff, out walking the moors. When she had noticed him before, he had been sitting. Now she saw that he was tall, six-two or three. He had dark hair, dark eyes, strong features, and he was somewhere in his late twenties to mid-thirties. He had a rough, outdoor-type look to him, but then, most of the people around the marina had that look. Deeply tanned and well muscled—easy to see, since he was wearing cutoffs and his shirt was open, probably just thrown on as a concession to the fact that he was arriving at the private entrance to an eating establishment where shirts and shoes were required by Florida law.
“You should have knocked,” she said, then was aggravated at herself, because she sounded defensive. She lived here, damn it.
“Well, you know, I was about to do just that—before being attacked by flying coffee.”
He was suggesting, of course, that she should be apologizing. No way. She had been, frankly, scared, and that had made her angry. This was her home, and there was no reason in hell why she should have expected a man to be standing there. Not to mention that she was wearing coffee, as well. So no way was she about to apologize.
“Damn!” she said, realizing that half the cookies were a total loss, already attracting sea birds. She stared at him again. “You’ve broken my cookies.”
“I broke your cookies?” he said. She didn’t like his tone at all. Or the way his facial features tightened, more with slough-it-off contempt than with any anger. He was incredulous, as if her cookies couldn’t matter in the least.
Well, they did matter. They were a present. Sharon had left the containers on the counter with a big bow on them, suggesting she have a wonderful weekend.
“My cookies are all over the ground. Good cookies. Home-baked cookies. Cookies that were a present.” She tried to stop herself. She was sounding ridiculous—over cookies. “My keys are somewhere, I’m late, and now I have to change. We don’t open here until eleven—for your future reference. Nick is awake, however. I’ll tell him that you’re here.”
“You forgot something in your assessment of the damage.”
“What?”
“Your coffee just burned my chest. I could sue.”
“I would say your attempt to barge into my home caused me to ruin my own shirt.”
“And your cookies, of course.”
“And my cookies. So go ahead. Sue. You just do that.”
She turned back into the house, intentionally closing the door in his face. “Nick!” she called to her uncle. “Someone to see you.” Beneath her breath, she added, “Major-league, overgrown ass here to see you.”
She didn’t wait to see if Nick responded. In a hurry, she raced through the private quarters that abutted the restaurant to her bedroom, changed quickly and started back out again. Apparently Nick had heard her, because the man was standing in the kitchen now. Nick did seem to know the guy, because they were discussing something over coffee. As she breezed through, they both stopped talking. The dark-haired man watched her, coolly appraising, judging her, she was certain, but as to what his judgment might be, she had no idea, nor did she care. Nick had certainly never required that she—or any of his employees—be nice to people simply because they were customers.