Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City) (52 page)

He was breathing hard.

I was breathing harder.

I stared at him.

The occupant stared back.

Grey eyes, almost silver, held mine in a vice grip of anger, surprise, and accusation. I felt an electric bolt, like I’d been tazered in the stomach. Other than a very slight shadow of wonder, he wore an expression that would have made a thunderstorm proud.

As well, he was so ruggedly sexy I’m sure my mouth fell open to protest the unfairness of his existence. Luckily, no sound emerged. I was too busy oscillating between stunned, mortified, and turned on.

This man was definitely not one of my brothers.

First of all, this guy had a blond beard and a smattering of blonde chest hair. All the Winston boys had black beards except Duane and Beauford, who were twins. They were numbers five and six in the family, and had ginger beards.

Also, this guy was tan. Tan all over, like a grease stained surfer or a Viking marauder who spent all his time at sea shirtless.

And… what number was I on?

Oh yes. Third, he was the kind of unkempt, ruggedly handsome that made me forget what number I was on.

He was massive. Like, six-foot-five huge. His chest and arms and stomach and shoulders were cut like a boulder; he felt stone hard.

The staring continued. I watched confusion war with fury as his glare devoured my face, lingering on my lips, chin, then darting back to my eyes.

Unable to handle the intensity of his stare a moment longer, I blurted, “I’m so sorry!”

He blinked at me, I like I’d just appeared. Then he released my hand and pushed me a step away. “What the hell was that?”

I ripped my gaze from his and looked at his chest. It was a nice chest. A
very, very
nice chest. But, his left nipple was red and angry, marred the otherwise physical perfection of his chiseled torso. A small sound of dismay fumbled from my lips.

Automatically, I reached forward and petted the offended skin. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I never would have purpled your nurple if I’d know you weren’t related to me. It’s just that I was trying to sleep. Really, I should have known you weren’t Cletus, he would have guessed my intentions a mile away and taken evasive maneuvers.”

“Evasive maneuvers?”

I glanced up from where my fingers continued to caress his wounded nipple to his silver eyes, now a tad less thunderstormy, but a tad more cautious, wary.

I blinked at him, my breath seizing in my chest, and completely lost my train of thought.

Confused and once again staring, I finally said,
“…What?”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed on me. After a short pause, he glanced down at his chest. I followed his glare to where my hand was touching him. I flinched, yanked my fingers away, and held both my hands balled into fists between us.

“Sorry.” I blurted again. “Sorry about twisting your nipple. Also sorry about petting it afterward. Furthermore, I’m sorry that I can’t seem to stop talking...”

His eyes lowered to my feet, then swept up my body in an unapologetic assessment, loitered on my bare calves and thighs for a minute, then dawdled on my chest.

“Who are you?” He asked my chest, sounding annoyed.

“Who am I?” I asked, because—honestly and I might lose my badass card for this—part of me had forgotten my name. Because he was the kind of ruggedly sexy that made me forget what number I was on and what my name was.

“Yeah, who are you?” His eyes finally met mine and he sounded even more annoyed. I could tell by his accent he wasn’t from Tennessee, though he had a distinct southern drawl. My brain told me it was either Oklahoma or Northern Texas.

“I-I’m Ashley Winston.”

His frown was equal parts severe, confused, and angry from behind his unwieldy big blonde beard as he surveyed me.

Then he turned to Jethro. “You have a sister?”

The fact that he addressed my bother rather than me was a slap of sobriety and I responded with mildly offended displeasure, “Yes they have a sister.” My neck started to itch.

Jethro had followed me around the car when I charged into the quonset hut and he tipped his head in my direction. “Yep. That’s Ash.”

“I thought Ash was a boy.” The blonde stranger said this like he was both shocked and upset, like he’d been misled, lured into our cluttered garage with trickery and deception.

“No. She’s a girl.” Billy bellowed from under the hood of the car.

The stranger’s eyes moved back to me, swept up and down my body in blatant inspection. He did not look pleased.

“Obviously.”
The blond stranger said, like he’d just tasted something sour.

Then, in that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was fiction-handsome. Like, romance novel handsome. But not the clean cut (billionaire) alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype.

He was the bodice ripper, Scottish highlander or Viking conqueror, historical romance kind; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse, toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.

But h
is less than flattering expression was the second slap needed to propel me out of my stupor. I finally saw beyond my initial stunned reaction to his synapses suppressing rugged handsomeness and my anger boiled over anew. I remembered that it was 6:14 am in the morning and this male specimen of fineness was the reason I was awake.

Handsome or not, it didn’t matter. I decided he was a jackass.

I gave him my very best
you’re not worth my time
glare even as I fought again a tardy blush of embarrassment. Although, I wasn’t sure if I was blushing because I’d just inflicted pain to his nipple then tried to pet it, or because he obviously found me repulsive.

Really, I’d ogled
him. Then, amidst my ogling, he gave me the grossed-out stink-eye.

Ignoring these disturbing and uncomplimentary
musings, I turned to Jethro. “Sorry about maiming your friend, but will you please tell him,” I indicated to the stranger with a thumb over my shoulder, “to quit revving the engine at six fourteen in the morning, or else I’ll remove this car’s spark plug wires and lock you all out of the house.”

Jethro sighed, but he was still smiling. Come to think on it, he was smiling a lot for Jethro. “Com
e on, Ash. We gotta be at work in two hours. Cut us a break.”

I blinked at him and briefly considered that I might be dreaming. “You have a job?”

Jethro’s smile dimmed, turned brittle. “Yes. I gotta job, baby sister.”

I felt the stern line of my mouth soften and the back of my neck heat with mild embarrassment. I had been gone a long time and I had no desire to insult or hurt anyone, least of all my brother. He’d never shown any outward concern for me growing up, but he was still my brother.

Billy poked his head around the hood of the car and peered at me. Even though I was younger than both of them, when we were growing up I’d been the sole responsible child of the seven Winston brood, and the only girl. My three older—and especially my three younger brothers—had always seen me as an authority figure.

I fought against the jitteriness still plaguing me from the titty-twi
ster-encounter and shook my head, “Look, my flight
just
got in at two this morning and I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. I’m supposed to be at the hospital in Knoxville at eleven to find out what’s going on with momma.” I paused, then added. “I need some sleep.”

“Bethany is in the hospital?” This question came from the stranger behind me. My back stiffened at his use of my mother’s first name.

My brother Billy walked to the side of the car, leaned against the rim of the front tire. “Yep. I came home two days ago, she left a note.”

“What kind of note?” The stranger asked.

“She said she was sick and had to go to the hospital.”

My throat tightened as my eyes moved to the cement floor of the garage. I suppressed the wave of worried panic. I reminded myself that she could be sick with the flu or maybe just needed a vacation from the crazy that was living with my brothers. Maybe she was completely fine.

“I didn’t know she was sick.” The blond man said, coming to stand next to me, my shoulder at his bicep. In my peripheral vision I noted that his right hand was covering his left nipple.

“No one did.” Billy said, shaking his head then looking at me. “Not even Ash.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? What exactly happened?” The blond man crossed his arms and an air of privilege and authority hung heavy around him. “Start from the beginning.” He demanded.

A gathering ache of frustration set up camp at the base of my neck. This man, this
stranger
, sounded so entitled, as though he should be kept in the loop regarding what happened with my mother.

Maybe it was my lack of sleep; or maybe it was the stress of
not knowing
what was going on with my mother; or maybe it was because his insinuation of entitlement reminded me of every ivy-league ignoramus medical doctor I’d had to endure at my job back in Chicago; but I had no patience for this behemoth at my shoulder, despite his colossal handsomeness and despite the fact that I’d assaulted then molested his man-nipples.

I glared at his raggedy, unkempt beard and longish blond hair, then shifted my stare to his silver eyes. “Why is this any of your business? And who the hell are you?”

Mr. Blond Beard narrowed his eyes at me, like I was gum on his shoe. I returned his malicious glower, like he was gum in my hair.

I heard Jethro clear his throat and I saw out of the corner of my eye that he gestured to the stranger with a greasy rag. “Ash, this is Drew Huntsman. He’s my boss.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winston.” He drawled, extending his hand, employing ironic southern politeness, like older church ladies use when they say,
Bless your heart,
and they really mean,
You couldn’t find your way out of a small shed with a map, lighted signs, and an escort.

But his face held no amount of pleasure. In fact, he looked positively aggravated by the audacity of my existence.

“Likewise, I’m sure.” I returned his ironic southern politeness with my own vitriol-laced-volley.

When I’d left Tennessee eight years ago, Jethro’s ‘job’ was selling weed to vacationing teenagers, then stealing their cars. I guessed that this self-important blond toolbox was likely in a similar trade. Instead of accepting his hand, I continued, “Your
professional
relationship with my brother not-withstanding, I’m certain even someone like you can recognize that this a
personal
family matter and is, quite frankly, none of your business.”

Not waiting for his reaction, I turned back to Jethro. “Rev your engine all you like. I’m getting dressed and going to town, see what I can find out.”

I strolled out of the garage with my head held high. I did my best to ignore the fact that I felt Drew’s eyes, sure and hot as a brand, on my backside. This was accompanied by the unavoidable and spreading warmth in my chest associated with the awareness that a super-hot mountain of a man was watching me walk away.

A super hot mountain man who’d looked at me like I had three heads and all of them were Khloe Kardashian doppelgangers.

I decided to overlook the knowledge that my hasty, arrogant dismissal of him was likely undermined by the fact that I was leaving in a huff while wearing nothing but my underwear. Also undermining my superiority was the fact that I’d just attacked then fondled his chest. As well, I’d ogled him and he’d responded with repulsion.

So… yeah. I didn’t have much air in my sad little kite.

Once I was back inside the house, the door behind me, I leaned against it and released a slow breath. My hands were fisted at my sides so I shook them out, flexing my fingers, and sending a silent prayer upward that whatever was going on with my momma resolved sooner rather than later.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, holding on to the banister for balance, and crossed to the upstairs bathroom. I had no desire for more marauding Viking interactions, especially when the marauder was so good looking, it nearly eclipsed his entitled arrogance.

These were the thoughts in my head as I opened the bathroom door and found, to my life-long horror, Beauford Winston—at least I think it was Beauford, though it could have been Duane, the other twin—standing at the edge of the tub, naked except for his ginger beard, a dirty magazine propped on the counter, and his hand wrapped around Beau Jr.

I screamed.

He screamed.

My hands flew to my face.

He cursed.

I heard a thud and I turned away. I was now fully, and mortifyingly, awake.

“Shit, Ash. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry—I should have knocked.”

“Nah…” he huffed, “I should have locked the door. It’s just that everyone knows Tuesday mornings are my slot.”