Where We Go From Here (Phoenix Falls Series Book 3)

I tentatively lift a pinkie finger under the spray of the shower, bracing my body for the ice-cold nip, but instead I experience an all-body exhale, a golden sigh of relief as the water that I’ve been running for the past three minutes laps at my skin, warm and wonderful. I didn’t shower last night because, after catching taxi number six to grab food in town, I was no longer walking amongst the living. I said a little prayer by the end of my bed, relieved myself of the last of the day’s tears, and then I crawled under the covers, hoping for a speedy departure.

I got it. I fell asleep for the first time in four weeks without family betrayals or cheating fiancés sinking their teeth into my subconscious, and I woke up with the deep autumn mist peeping around the wooden frame of my window.

I step under the spray and try not to cry as I rub my ringless fingers up and down my body. What a marshmallow. Get a grip, softie. Bad stuff happens to people all the time – I should just be grateful that Evan and I broke up when we were only two years down the line.

Imagine if it had been longer.

Imagine if we had actually gotten married.

I shudder at the thought, scrubbing the heels of my hands under my eyes as the tears blur in with the stream from the faucet. I twist it off, letting the steam curl into my lungs and soothe me from the inside-out, and I distract myself by mentally itinerating.

I’ll get dried and dressed in that cute as hell lingerie set, then I’ll cover it up with something big and comfy, then I’ll text my mom to thank her for this reprieve–

Suddenly my body goes still and my head snaps to the right, a muted clinking sound capturing my attention.

Did I just hear something? I stand stock-still in the glittery shower mist, eyes wide and unblinking, lips parted in surprise.

I wait it out. The clinking stops.

Did someone just… unlock the bungalow? I mean, this is a construction site, I know that it’s in use, but I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone to enter my living room–

Heavy footfalls sound in the direction of the bedroom. I grab my towel like it’s a military jacket.

I’m about to be sledge-hammered, naked, in the middle of nowhere. I look up at the ceiling and think, this is karma for what I was thinking about the Uber driver yesterday, isn’t it?

The biomes in my tummy go into a full-on melt-down.

I remain unmoving, my mind a sheet of panic, before wrapping the towel tighter around my body and stepping out onto the mat, my fingers clumsy with fear. My stomach is writhing. I wish I didn’t have wet shower hair because it’s only adding to the horror movie ambience.

As quietly as I can I twist down the door handle, pushing at it gently as soon as it’s free. Is this stupid? Should I have stayed in the shower? Like, forever?

I tip-toe across the new flooring in the living area and then, after a pulse-steadying inhale, I peer around the doorframe, straight into the bedroom.

I let out a soft gasp and stumble backwards.

There’s a man standing at the foot of my bed. He looks like he’s around two-hundred-and-fifty pounds and six-foot-a-million, wearing navy cargo pants and a matching shirt. The soft dark fabric is stretched thin across his shoulders. My eyes trail down his exposed tan arms until they land on his behind, and my lashes flutter as I take in the shape of his strong hips. I’ve never seen a man look so capable.

My brain fits the pieces together. He’s wearing a uniform – a building site uniform – which means that he’s clearly part of the renovation team.

Except for the fact that he obviously didn’t know that this bungalow was occupied. Because he’s standing ramrod straight and his eyes are locked squarely on my lingerie set, strewn tauntingly across the ruffled quilt.

And then he hears me.

He turns, startled, and the second that he catches a look at me he stumbles backwards too. Straight onto the bed. He throws out a large hand to steady himself but he grips right into the crotch of my slinky red panties. His eyes fly down to the fabric in his fist, lace slipping eagerly up the lengths of his fingers, and he immediately whips his arm back into the air, cheeks turning crimson. My eyes drop to his splayed thighs and my toes almost slip in the mini puddle that I’ve created on the wood. The curtain-drawn sex ambience and his testosterone-laden body-heat have me gripping my towel tighter, my hair clinging to the back of my neck.

He looks like a sex demon from one of my erotic sleep paralysis nightmares. He’s got deep caramel skin and roughed up hair. A hard-set jaw covered in stubble. And his eyes? They’re sparkly ice-crystal blue. Post-summer-storm blue, and twinkling like diamonds.

Speaking of diamonds – my left hand is now void of one and I’m wondering if his is equally bare. My eyes travel down the muscles, cords, bones in his thickly-packed left arm, but they’re disappointed to find that the adjoining hand is now buried deep in the front pocket of his cargos, a knee-jerk reaction to panty-gate. My gaze remains on the area until I realise what I’m actually staring at and I blink away like I’ve just experienced momentary blindness. Lucky for me that is not the case. I clench my fists a little tighter.

We stare at each other for three more seconds in complete silence, the only noise in the bungalow our ragged inhalations and the sound of his cargos scraping agitatedly against my sheets because his right leg will simply not stop bouncing. He looks like he’s in his late-thirties, maybe early-forties, and he’s so viscerally male that my knees literally shake.

Was it really yesterday that I was saying ‘no more men’? Let me rephrase: no more men, with the exception of this guy. I’ve never previously considered an affair with a stranger but right now all that I can think about is carpet burn and bite marks. My body is pumping oestrogen like it’s my fucking vocation.

I have never seen a man like this in my whole damn life. Maybe I wouldn’t mind if he actually murdered me.

On that note he suddenly shoves himself to his feet and he swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple working a full-time shift as he ambles out of the bedroom doorframe.

I step out of his way and the movement makes his eyes flash back to mine. He grunts, low and tight, and then he looks away with his brow creased in pain, his shoulders so rigid they could crack a boulder.

“I’m so–” He grimaces as he speaks and I take another step backwards. His voice is so deep I feel it under my towel.

He turns so that his back is to me and he walks to the front door which is still partially ajar. He opens it wide and then borderline keels over, his fists gripping into the panels on either side of his body. My eyes sweep the breadth of the doorframe and a pleasurable light-headedness sheathes my brain.

His shoulders are the exact same width as it.

The little screenwriter in me flips open her notepad and scribbles in a big glittery love heart.

This man is a romance story waiting to happen.

I pad silently closer and his spine snaps up straight, sensing me like an animal does.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps, his eyes diverted and looking out at the expanse of the Pine Hills valley.

I’m not. He’s blocking me into my own bungalow and I don’t mind at all. I want to make myself a coffee, sit back and enjoy the view.

“I had no idea,” he says gruffly, and then he twists his head slightly so that we can lock our eyes together again. He looks like he’s in agony. Pleasure-pain agony.

“I, uh… I work here,” he continues, and for a split second I swear that his eyes finally stray south of my face. They flash to the hem of my towel, the tops of my thighs, and then he’s biting into his bottom lip and forcing his head back to face outside again.

He looks angry. At himself. And it’s the hottest thing that I’ve ever seen.

I look down at my body, wondering how I can magic-spell some clothes onto myself. As much as I could enjoy this man taking in his fill of me, the extreme rise and fall of his chest as he rakes me with his gaze, I am aware of how inappropriate this is. I don’t know who he is. He doesn’t know who I am. I am fantasising about having an affair with him. For all I know he really could be married. I try to scope out his left hand again but it’s now tucked safely under his bulging bicep.

Darn it.

He turns his head so that I can take in his profile, his eyes cast down, a promise that he isn’t looking. He licks his bottom lip and then says in a deep voice, “We aren’t supposed to have any residents on site until the New Year so I had no idea that anyone would be in here. I saw that some keys were missing and I needed to check it out. The room, I mean! I had to check out the room, not… I’m not checking out anything else.”

He swallows again and shifts the waistband of his pants. I lean against the wall to my right for support.

“Christ, this is unexpected. I’m sorry about all of this.” He sighs and wipes his wrist across his forehead. Is he sweating? That’d make two of us. “Could you please do me a favour and meet me in my office at some point this morning, so that we can discuss this? When you, uh…” He scratches at his jaw and his stubble makes rough scraping sounds. “When you’re… clothed,” he finishes, his skin dark and flushed.

Am I in heat or something? My throat has gone so rusty that I have to cough multiple times before I eventually manage to choke out a husky, “Okay.”

Apparently one word in my dulcet tone is truly the final straw. He rolls his lips into his mouth, nodding curtly once, and then he’s storming down the bungalow’s path with more intent than an American sniper.

I give my limbs a few seconds to recalibrate, and then I toe the door closed.

Oh dear. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I arrived at my new “job” and I already seem to have lost my mind. A Viking just broke into my bungalow and somehow I am seriously considering taking up his invitation to meet him in his office.

Wait – his office?

Did I just meet the guy who’s running the renovation? In my towel?

Did you not also just have your heart broken, your trust betrayed, and two years of your life pulled from underneath your feet?

It’s too much stimulus for me to take in. I kneel down on the foot of the bed, reach for the pillows so that I can clutch my bear, and then I hold it to my chest as I bow my head into the quilt. If I was to pray now I’m not sure what I would wish for.

I don’t want to look backwards but I’m not sure that I’m ready to take the first steps forwards either. And a guy isn’t going to fix that. Whether or not that man outside made my pulse pound like a jackhammer, he is simply another guy with no good intentions. I know what men think of me now: I’m a place-holder. A stop along the way.

I’m replaceable.

And it’s not just the guys, my brain reminds me.

As if I’d forgotten. My own flesh and blood couldn’t even find it in their hearts to respect me.

Just like that I’m back to my earlier sentiment. That man out there definitely needs to be kept at arm’s length. No more cutesy courtships. No more guys.

I still on the quilt, willing myself to be uninterested.

My body has other plans.

I pad quickly over to the window and then peek out between the curtains. A thrill zaps through my belly.

He may be halfway across the site but he’s still looking back at me.