Fierce (Storm MC 2)

I looked down at what I was wearing. Bloody hell, he was right. I was only wearing my thong and a tiny tank. Swallowing my mortification, I carried on as if this was a normal occurrence even though it was as far from my usual behavior as you could get.

“Do you always wake people up by banging on their door and yelling at them? Especially when you know that they would have a hangover and need complete silence to get through the day?”

He smirked, so I smacked him in the arm, and then sashayed my way down the hall; making sure to give him an eyeful of my bare ass. I figured I may as well work with the situation at hand even if it wasn’t what I would have chosen. The noise he made as he sucked in a breath was almost enough to make up for my embarrassment.

When I reached the end of the hall, I pointed left towards the kitchen. “You go in there and I’ll be with you in a minute.” Turning right, I hurried to my bedroom so I could put some clothes on. My head was hammering, I felt queasy, and I was still annoyed at the way he spoke to me last night, but I couldn’t deny the excitement bubbling through me that Scott was in my house.

A couple of minutes later, dressed more appropriately in shorts, a t-shirt and a bra, I found him with his head in the fridge. He heard me and stuck his head out, looking at me, body still bent over. “You got any cold water in here?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t drink cold water.”

“Juice?”

“No.”

He shut the fridge, grabbed a glass out of the dish rack, filled it with water from the tap and brought it to me. Then he walked back to the kitchen bench where he’d put his keys. I sat at the table, wondering what he was doing, but as my brain was very slow this morning, the answer wasn’t coming to me fast. Picking up his keys, he said, “I’ll be back with juice.”

I guzzled some water; the coolness of it against my dry throat felt so good. Without really raising my lips from the glass, I nodded and said, “Thanks, that’d be good.” I was struggling, and forming words into sentences was too freaking hard; our conversation was going to be limited today but so far he didn’t seem to care.

While he was gone, I contemplated trying to make myself look better. I even went so far as to drag myself into the bathroom and brush my hair and teeth. However, that was the extent of my effort. I had no doubt I’d regret this when I was feeling better.

Ten minutes later he strode through my front door with bags of groceries and a determined look on his face.

“I thought you were just getting juice.”

“Babe, you need more than juice,” he stated as he handed me a banana, “Eat this, and then I’ve got some Gatorade for you to drink.”

“I don’t think I could stomach a banana, Scott.”

“Eat it, it’ll help get rid of your headache.”

Oh, so bossy.

I watched him as I peeled the banana. He moved around my kitchen like it was his own, putting drinks in the fridge and adding more bananas to the fruit bowl. Not only had he bought me Gatorade and bananas, he’d also stocked me up on juice and coconut water.

“How the heck does a man like you know these things?” It could have just been my fried brain, but Scott didn’t strike me as someone who would know what foods and drinks helped with sickness. There he was, dressed in jeans, big black boots, a tight black t-shirt, and his biker jacket. He had tattoos all over his arms and chunky silver rings on his fingers; he had that scary hot look about him. It was the kind of look that blazed a warning to me to stay away for the safety of my heart. Why, oh why, did God bring hot, sexy men into my life that were clearly not made for me?

He stopped what he was doing and gave me his full attention. “A man like me?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest while he waited for my reply.

“Well, you’re a biker - ” He raised his eyebrows. Shit, where were my freaking words today? “What I meant to say is, you don’t come off as the type of man who would know that bloody bananas get rid of headaches.” I was completely flustered now, and the banana would have no shot at clearing my headache because I’d just made it ten times worse.

“Yeah babe, I’m a biker but I’m not fucking ignorant. I do know things, for instance, that bananas help with hangovers.”

I buried my head in my hands. This day had just started and I was already making a mess of it. Taking a deep breath, I looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Takes a lot more than that to offend me. Now eat that banana. I’ve got shit to talk to you about and I need you thinking straight.”

I did as I was told while racking my brain trying to figure out what the heck he could want to talk to me about. He cleared the banana peels into the bin and brought me a Gatorade before sitting across from me at the table. I couldn’t help staring at his arms as he folded them in front of him. Arms were it for me; the first thing I noticed about a guy, and I’d noticed Scott’s that first day I’d met him. I quickly decided that he must spend a lot of time in the gym; he was built, and I bet if I were to reach out and touch him, he would be rock hard.

“My eyes are up here,” he drawled, and when I lifted my eyes to his, I took in the sexy grin plastered on his face.

He knew how he was affecting me; no doubt he had the ladies lined up. Not being able to come up with a witty comeback, I did the only thing that came to mind. I poked my tongue at him. Yeah, real mature, but he did things to me; one of them being that he screwed with my mind and turned me into a hot mess, unable to process my thoughts quickly.

He surprised me by laughing. It was one of those genuine laughs that made his eyes crinkle, and that sent another jolt through me. Crinkled eyes were another turn on for me. Weird, I know, but there was just something about a man whose laughter touched his whole body. It was all tied up with my feelings about family, happiness and my desire to build a life with a man who also valued those things. Crinkled eyes symbolised those things to me.

I took a sip of Gatorade and waited for him to talk. He indicated for me to drink more so I did. Finally he spoke. “The job’s yours if you want it.”

I nearly spat my drink all over him. “What? Why?” Again, sentences were not forthcoming.