It's in His Kiss
Page 5
At the moment the entire warehouse was a wide-open space divided into three units by questionably thin walls. Each apartment had a rudimentary galley kitchen and bathroom and was filled with a variety of leftover dust and crap from the previous renters—hence the furnished (sort of) part of the ad. In addition to beds and tables, this included some odd-looking carnival equipment and a saltwater taffy pull.
Or possibly a torture device . . .
Becca and Mr. Lyons walked through each of the apartments. The first unit was cheapest since it was the smallest, and also the coldest, as it got the least sun exposure.
Since cheap was right up her alley, and she didn’t have to worry about cold for another six months, she’d handed over her check.
“If you need anything,” Mr. Lyons said, “yell for the guys across the alley. Tanner’s almost always on the dock or their boat, but he’s a real tough nut to crack. Cole’s good for fixing just about anything. But Sam knows all there’s to know about these old warehouses. He’s your man if you need anything.”
Sam again. But she decided she’d need his help never. “Got it, thanks.”
“He’s not exactly shy, so don’t you be,” Lyons said. “Just don’t try to date any of them. They’re pretty much ex-hell-raisers these days, but still heartbreakers, each and every one of them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Becca said, knowing she could and had handled just about anything a woman could face. She absolutely wouldn’t be needing help.
Not an hour later, she was in the bathroom washing her hands when she found a huge, black, hairy spider in her sink staring at her with eight beady eyes. She went screaming into the alley, jumping up and down, shaking out her hair, and jerking her limbs like a complete moron.
“You lost again?”
She let out another scream and whirled around to face—oh, perfect—Sexy Grumpy Surfer. He was in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and mirrored glasses, looking movie-star cool and sexy hot.
He arched a single brow.
“There’s a spider in my bathroom sink,” she said, still gasping for breath.
“That explains the dance moves.”
Ignoring this and him, she checked herself over again, still not convinced she was spider-free.
“Need help?” he asked.
“No.”
He shrugged and turned to walk away.
“Okay, yes,” she admitted. Damn it. “I need help.” She pointed to the offending building. “First apartment, door’s wide open. The evil culprit is in the bathroom sink.”
With a salute, he vanished inside her building.
She did not follow. She couldn’t follow; her feet had turned into two concrete blocks. And if he came out without having caught the spider, she was going to have to move out. Immediately.
Two minutes later, Sexy Grumpy Surfer reappeared, the smirk still in place. She wasn’t going to ask. She refused to ask. But her brain didn’t get the message to her mouth. “You get it?” she demanded, and was rattled enough not to care that her voice shook a little bit.
“Got it,” he said.
“Sure?”
He gave her a head tilt. “Do you want me to swear on a stack of Bibles, or my mother’s grave?”
His mother was in a grave. That was sad and tragic, and she knew later she’d think about it and mourn for them. But for right now, she wanted assurances. “Your word will do.”
“I’m sure I got the spider.”
Whew. She sagged in relief. “Okay, then. Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you’d do those moves again.”
Was he laughing at her? She narrowed her eyes at him because yeah, he was laughing at her. “I don’t suppose.”
“Shame,” he said, and then he was gone.
Becca went cautiously back inside. She glared at her bathroom mirror for a few minutes and told herself she was fine, move on.
She was really good at that, moving on. She stood in the center of the drafty space with her two suitcases, her portable piano keyboard, and her pride. There were a few other things, too. Fear. Nerves. Worry. But she’d done it, she’d made the move to reclaim her life, and at the realization a new feeling settled into her chest, pushing out some of the anxiety.
Hope.
Nightfall hit in earnest, and she had nothing to do with herself. No WiFi, no cable. Just her imagination. When it kicked in gear, picturing the relatives of the doomed spider creeping out of the woodwork to stalk her, she hurriedly pulled out her e-reader to distract herself. It was an older model, and she had to hold up a flashlight to read by. She could’ve left an overhead light on, but then she’d have to get out of bed later to turn it off. This wasn’t a new problem. She couldn’t have said how many times in the past she’d dropped the flashlight and e-reader on her face while trying to read in bed, and sure enough, twenty minutes in, she dropped the flashlight and e-reader on her face.
Giving up, she drove into town, found a local bar and grill named, of all things, the Love Shack. She ordered a pizza, took it back to her place, and ate alone staring out the huge windows.
The view was an inky black sky, a slice of equally inky black ocean, and the alley that ran perpendicular from the street between the other warehouses.
Three guys were carrying what looked like scuba gear into Sexy Grumpy Surfer’s warehouse. Three hot guys, one of them Sexy Grumpy Surfer himself. They were laughing and talking as they made several trips.
Or possibly a torture device . . .
Becca and Mr. Lyons walked through each of the apartments. The first unit was cheapest since it was the smallest, and also the coldest, as it got the least sun exposure.
Since cheap was right up her alley, and she didn’t have to worry about cold for another six months, she’d handed over her check.
“If you need anything,” Mr. Lyons said, “yell for the guys across the alley. Tanner’s almost always on the dock or their boat, but he’s a real tough nut to crack. Cole’s good for fixing just about anything. But Sam knows all there’s to know about these old warehouses. He’s your man if you need anything.”
Sam again. But she decided she’d need his help never. “Got it, thanks.”
“He’s not exactly shy, so don’t you be,” Lyons said. “Just don’t try to date any of them. They’re pretty much ex-hell-raisers these days, but still heartbreakers, each and every one of them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Becca said, knowing she could and had handled just about anything a woman could face. She absolutely wouldn’t be needing help.
Not an hour later, she was in the bathroom washing her hands when she found a huge, black, hairy spider in her sink staring at her with eight beady eyes. She went screaming into the alley, jumping up and down, shaking out her hair, and jerking her limbs like a complete moron.
“You lost again?”
She let out another scream and whirled around to face—oh, perfect—Sexy Grumpy Surfer. He was in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and mirrored glasses, looking movie-star cool and sexy hot.
He arched a single brow.
“There’s a spider in my bathroom sink,” she said, still gasping for breath.
“That explains the dance moves.”
Ignoring this and him, she checked herself over again, still not convinced she was spider-free.
“Need help?” he asked.
“No.”
He shrugged and turned to walk away.
“Okay, yes,” she admitted. Damn it. “I need help.” She pointed to the offending building. “First apartment, door’s wide open. The evil culprit is in the bathroom sink.”
With a salute, he vanished inside her building.
She did not follow. She couldn’t follow; her feet had turned into two concrete blocks. And if he came out without having caught the spider, she was going to have to move out. Immediately.
Two minutes later, Sexy Grumpy Surfer reappeared, the smirk still in place. She wasn’t going to ask. She refused to ask. But her brain didn’t get the message to her mouth. “You get it?” she demanded, and was rattled enough not to care that her voice shook a little bit.
“Got it,” he said.
“Sure?”
He gave her a head tilt. “Do you want me to swear on a stack of Bibles, or my mother’s grave?”
His mother was in a grave. That was sad and tragic, and she knew later she’d think about it and mourn for them. But for right now, she wanted assurances. “Your word will do.”
“I’m sure I got the spider.”
Whew. She sagged in relief. “Okay, then. Thank you.”
“I don’t suppose you’d do those moves again.”
Was he laughing at her? She narrowed her eyes at him because yeah, he was laughing at her. “I don’t suppose.”
“Shame,” he said, and then he was gone.
Becca went cautiously back inside. She glared at her bathroom mirror for a few minutes and told herself she was fine, move on.
She was really good at that, moving on. She stood in the center of the drafty space with her two suitcases, her portable piano keyboard, and her pride. There were a few other things, too. Fear. Nerves. Worry. But she’d done it, she’d made the move to reclaim her life, and at the realization a new feeling settled into her chest, pushing out some of the anxiety.
Hope.
Nightfall hit in earnest, and she had nothing to do with herself. No WiFi, no cable. Just her imagination. When it kicked in gear, picturing the relatives of the doomed spider creeping out of the woodwork to stalk her, she hurriedly pulled out her e-reader to distract herself. It was an older model, and she had to hold up a flashlight to read by. She could’ve left an overhead light on, but then she’d have to get out of bed later to turn it off. This wasn’t a new problem. She couldn’t have said how many times in the past she’d dropped the flashlight and e-reader on her face while trying to read in bed, and sure enough, twenty minutes in, she dropped the flashlight and e-reader on her face.
Giving up, she drove into town, found a local bar and grill named, of all things, the Love Shack. She ordered a pizza, took it back to her place, and ate alone staring out the huge windows.
The view was an inky black sky, a slice of equally inky black ocean, and the alley that ran perpendicular from the street between the other warehouses.
Three guys were carrying what looked like scuba gear into Sexy Grumpy Surfer’s warehouse. Three hot guys, one of them Sexy Grumpy Surfer himself. They were laughing and talking as they made several trips.
