Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

I’m working outside today, and as I survey the rotten wood that is the back porch, I wonder if I should rip up the whole thing or just replace the rotten boards before someone breaks their neck.

I hear Ranger’s frantic happy bark through an upstairs open window followed by the cotton ball’s pissy one, then Jenny’s indulgent, “Ranger, honey, we talked about this. No hump!”

I smile a little. Good l

uck with that, honey.

Ranger sleeps with me in the cottage, but the second I let him out in the morning, he shoots off to see Jenny and Dolly. I know, because I’ve started to use his horny barks as my gauge for when it’s time for my second cup of coffee.

I keep waiting for Jenny to lose her diva mind, but other than the time she came to tell me that Ranger’d deposited a dead duck in the kitchen and could I please remove it, she’s been pretty cool.

I guess.

I turn my attention back to the work at hand, deciding that if I’m going to fix the porch, I might as well do it all the way.

The supplies I’d gotten at Home Depot weren’t nearly enough to make a dent in this old place, so I’d had a shit-ton of wood and other renovation materials delivered courtesy of “Mr. Walcott.”

If you’re wondering if I’m feeling bad about that little lie…

Not really.

It’s freeing to be just a regular guy.

I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed people not kissing my ass, and Jenny Dawson certainly isn’t kissing my ass.

The other day she called me “boy” when asking me to fix the freezer’s icemaker.

It’s also occurred to me, though, that this idiotic “information diet” of hers is working in my favor. A thorough Google search on her part and my charade would be over in a second, but her avoiding gossip about herself means she also avoids gossip about me.

My lie is safe. For now.

I’ve gathered everything I need to get started on the porch, and I’ve just started to tear up the first board when I hear the door above me open.

The back of the house has an old antebellum-style balcony, and the soft hum of female singing tells me Jenny’s about to make use of it.

I step off the porch, walking backward. Looking up, I can see her, and I’m ready to suggest that she go somewhere else for the day because my venture is going to be a noisy one.

The words never make it out.

Jenny Dawson is wearing a bikini.

She’s still humming as she drags some ugly-looking chaise thing onto the balcony before fluttering a fluffy white towel onto it and sliding sunglasses onto her face. She’s planning to sunbathe. No way in hell am I going to get any work done.

“The balcony might not be stable, you know,” I call, loud enough for her to hear.

Her head whips around, and she smiles when she sees me. She walks to the railing and leans over it, giving me a full view of her body.

Fuck.

Fuck me.

She’s perfect. She’s got the perfect lean curves of a twenty-two-year-old who takes care of herself. I’m sweating bullets now, and not from the heat.

Correction—not from the heat of the sun.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” she says, ignoring my warning about the balcony.

Last time she asked me that, she asked if she was a good kisser. I lied.