“What the…?”
Wes’ disbelieving question made her turn around to find him staring after her brother. Sugar sat on the front of the bike in Charlie’s lap as he peered around her big head and drove down the street. Tara shook her head and flipped on the living room and porch lights.
“I told you, she’s psychotic.”
In the added light, Wes’s muscled back compared favorably with his bare chest. Tara frowned as she noticed a pink puckered circle of skin to the left of his spine, just above his boxer’s waistband, but he turned before she could figure out exactly what it was. She stepped inside so he wouldn’t notice she’d been staring.
He walked past her. “Psychotic is an understatement.”
She shut the door and turned around to get a closer look at the scar on his back. But as she wondered what’d happened, he stood with his back to the wall, checking out her house. There wasn’t much to see: living room, kitchen, two bathrooms, and two bedrooms down the hall. It was small, but it was hers, which made it perfect. Glad she’d cleaned that morning, she led him though the living room and down the hall.
“You can use this bathroom; there are towels under the sink,” she told him after opening the door and then continuing toward her room. “I’ve gotta get this thing off.”
“Thanks.”
She plucked at her shirt, wrinkling her nose. She lifted the hem as she walked, pulling it over her head before she realized she hadn’t heard the bathroom door click shut behind her. Heart pounding, she glanced over her shoulder in time to see the door close. Relief left a tingle in her veins. What had she expected, that he’d be right there, ready to jump her?
No, he seemed like an all-around nice guy, and besides, Charlie had been about as subtle as a Harley.
Still, she locked her bedroom door before going into her private bathroom to wash up and change—one didn’t have to be completely stupid. She replaced her black tank with a more conservative white one and a thin red sweater, her shorts with a pair of faded jeans, and kept the same sandals. After brushing her hair, she decided to leave it down, then dabbed on some perfume just in case.
The shower was still on when she walked down the hall past the guest bathroom, so she retrieved the bag of clothes Wes had left on the porch and headed for the basement. The phone rang on her way back through the kitchen and she picked up the cordless handset.
“Why hasn’t he left yet?” her brother demanded when she answered.
“Geez, Charlie, he’s still in the shower.”
“He better be out of there in five minutes.”
She drew in a deep, controlled breath. “This is exactly the reason I moved out.”
“You don’t even know who this guy is, Tara.”
“I’d like the chance to find out, at least. I’m not sixteen, and I’m not stupid.”
I’m not Annabel. She didn’t say it, but from the silence on Charlie’s end, she knew their sister was on his mind, too. Tara felt bad, she missed her like hell, too, but she was tired of paying for Annabel’s mistakes.
“Did you know Lauren started dating someone?” Charlie asked abruptly.
His wounded tone caught her off guard. “Not until I ran into her earlier tonight, why?”
“No reason.” But the casual brush-off came a beat too late. Sympathy melted Tara’s resentment as she realized Charlie liked Lauren. No wonder he’d been wearing his hair shorter the past couple months.
“Charlie—”
“Like I said, five minutes.”
He hung up on her, and she sighed as she continued downstairs to treat the ketchup and mustard stains on Wes’ white dress shirt. She set it to soak before starting a load with her black tank and his dark pants and suit jacket. The tags instructed dry clean only, but no way would that cut it. If she was careful, it’d be fine.
His wallet and car rental keys had been in his pants pocket, so she picked them up to take upstairs with her. Curiosity gnawed at her, but she resisted snooping until she reached the top of the stairs. Just a peek—to see how old he was. She opened the wallet, scanned his driver’s license quick, then flipped it closed again, feeling like a nosey jerk.
Westin Carter was thirty-one, lived in Denver as he’d said, and he was an organ donor. Picturing him in the suit, that didn’t surprise her. But the tattooed, boxer-clad hottie didn’t seem the type to put an orange sticker on his license.
Tara frowned at herself. She was doing the same thing he’d done earlier—judging him by his outward appearance when she knew better than anyone that the surface could conceal a lot. He’d pointed out she dressed like a wild woman so she must be one, but he didn’t know she’d only been in costume, or the fact that she’d probably never find the guts to follow through in real life. Letting a stranger take a shower in her home was the craziest thing she’d done in her unexciting life.
She closed the basement door, then jumped at the sight of Wes striding down the hall, so tall and handsome, dressed in her brother’s tee shirt and jeans. She gave him a casual once over, thinking the clothes looked so much better on Wes.
“Everything fit okay?” she asked while handing over his personal items with a slightly shaky hand. Guilt for snooping or nervousness over her strong attraction to the man? Either way, she attempted to ignore both.