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 here 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 with his palms in the air. "I'm not a creep or anything.”
"You mean, just because you yelled at me in front of my toddler and then followed me into my house?" I ask, a 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 accuses me.
"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 fucking–"
"Stop swearing in front of my kid!"
"Shit." 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 insists. 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?"
He laughs. "I said kind of cute. 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."
3
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’s cute when she’s angry, except "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 a 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.
"You're awful full of yourself."
"You're looking at me like someone who just got out of prison and hasn't seen a girl in ten years," she complains. "Oh my God, did you just get out of prison?"
I hold up my hands. "Guilty as charged. I just got released from prison, came straight to West Bend, and put out a fire in your orchard. You're the first woman I've laid eyes on and I must have you right now."
She narrows her eyes. "Don't be a jackass."
"Swearing?" I glance over at her kid who's hanging onto the side of this giant plastic thing with toys all over it. I don't know what the hell it is.
Or if the kid can understand what we're saying. Do kids understand words at that age? Hell, I don't even know how old the kid is. It's a girl. She has red hair though, like her mom, curly on top. She's kind of cute, I guess. I mean, kids generally seem like a giant pain in the ass, but she seems happy enough, batting around her toys like some kind of cat.
"Oh, whatever," she groans.
"That's very mature of you."
"Did you follow me in here just to harass me, or what?"