Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

“Jesus,” he mutters as we get in line at the cash register. “No.”

I poke his side. There’s not a bit of give, just firm muscle. “Come on. I can take it.”

He remains silent for a few moments, as though considering my question, as he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket.

Then, “I’ve had better.”

My stomach plummets to my feet.

Of course he’s had better. He kissed the hell out of me, and I more or less just stood there, letting it happen, holding on for dear life.

But even as disappointment settles around me that he wasn’t quite as rocked by the kiss as I was, it occurs to me that he still hasn’t looked at me. Not once.

I smile a little, because even if he’s had better…I’m pretty sure he’s had worse too.

And I’m way more excited about that than I have any right to be.

Noah

I survive the first week of being Jenny Dawson’s bitch.

Oh, I’m sorry, I mean caretaker of her run-down palace.

Although, to be fair…it hasn’t been all bad.

Ranger and I have settled into the little cottage with relative ease now that we’ve figured out that running the coffeepot at the same time as the microwave blows the fuse and that the hot and cold are reversed in the shower, and now that we’ve relocated the squirrel family living in the eaves to a nice tree on the opposite side of the property.

For her part, Jenny seems to be settling in pretty well. I don’t see her all that much, a distance I suspect we’re both taking pains to foster.

To be honest, I had serious doubts that the girl would last two days. No TV, no Internet, no cellphone. I know she’s used the landline a couple times to check in with her parents and some chick named Amber, assuring them that she’s fine and happy.

But the weird thing is, she really does seem fine and happy. As far as I can tell, most all of her time goes toward her music. The guitar plays nonstop from the moment she gets up, around eight, until at least five. It’s weird—I never thought of musicians as having a regular job, but the girl puts in more time with that guitar than I’ve put into anything in my life.

Until now.

To say that the old house is keeping me busy is an understatement. So far I’ve cleaned the gutters, replaced the sink in the downstairs bathroom, torn up the fraying, mildewing carpet on the main staircase, and replaced the broken window in what I suspect was once the dining room.

The good news is that I haven’t thought about Yvonne once. Not that I needed confirmation that ending our engagement was the right thing for both of us, but the fact that I don’t miss her makes me feel as relieved as it does guilty.

The bad news is that while Yvonne’s barely crossed my mind, a certain blond country singer won’t leave my mind.

That fucking kiss was a mistake.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. One second I was in complete control, doing the girl a favor and saving her from some glory-seeking bitch out for her one moment of fame at someone else’s expense, and the next I’m losing my mind over the taste of her mouth, the soft give of her hips, the way she kissed me back a little bit shy and a whole lot desperate.

For a girl who has a reputation for getting plenty of horizontal action, she tasted a hell of a lot like innocence. And sweetness.

And want.

Shit.

No matter how much I pretend it didn’t happen, no matter how hard I try to avoid her, it’s there.

The taste of her lips, the sound of those frantic little breaths…

I wipe sweat from my forehead. Summer hasn’t even really kicked off yet, but it’s hotter than usual for June.

And Jenny Dawson only makes it a hell of a lot hotter.