Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

He’s going at that wall like he’s working out some serious aggression. On the next swing of the hammer, I’m reminded of the headache I awoke with. The delight wanes. Time to put an end to this nuisance.

“Hey.” Nothing. He keeps killing the sheetrock, exposing a very nice red brick living beneath it. “Hey! Bob the Builder! Give it a rest, will you!”

Freezing mid swing, he brings the sledgehammer down gently. Then he drops it and turns around.

Da fuuu…“Fancy?” is all I can muster out, my voice strangely high. I know what the sheetrock feels like. I know because he may as well have slugged me in the gut with that sledgehammer.

Nostrils flaring, sweat dripping down a chest that belongs in a Magic Mike sequel, Vaughn stares back at me for what feels like a lifetime. So long I may need Botox. So long I’m starting to fidget under his pointed though slightly detached examination of me, myself, and I.

The song ends and the silence breaks the weird vibe traveling between us. And when I say weird, I mean not good, not good at all. Huh. What’s his problem? I mean, besides having a total stranger live in his house and invade his privacy. Could be my vivid imagination is acting up. Could be. Yeah, that’s it. Probably lack of sleep…probably.

He walks over to the sound system and shuts it off. When his attention returns to me, his lips twitch as his gaze zeros in on my t-shirt. Still reeling from the discovery of all the muscles standing before me, I have to check to see what it is that’s amusing him.

“That’s, umm, an interesting choice of nightwear,” he finally says.

Cam and I have been exchanging prank Christmas gifts for the last ten years. This one is a personal favorite of mine. On the front of the oversized t-shirt, The Duck U Lookin’ At? ducking spellcheck is written in bold black letters. On the back, there’s a cartoon drawing of a duck flipping the bird.

I freaking love this t-shirt.

His chocolate brown eyes work their way down the length of my shirt, pause where it ends at the top of my thighs, linger for a while, then slide down to my feet. A baby v appears between his brows.

“Is that supposed to be chocolate ice cream?” He’s referring to the top of my fluffy brown slippers. The ones I bought at the mall because they’re a perfect metaphor for my life.

“It’s the shit emoji.”

“I was afraid of that,” he mutters. Picking up a gray t-shirt off the floor, he starts wiping his chest.

I should’ve definitely taken Justin up on that offer.

“You’re looking rather homespun this morning,” I say as I pour a much needed second cup of coffee and study the specimen seated across from me at the kitchen island. Elbows on the counter, I bring the mug to my lips while I openly examine his chest, the one he has yet to cover. Who the heck would’ve imaged what was hiding beneath all that fine cotton and wool. When my eyes climb back up to his face, he arches a knowing brow. If he doesn’t want me looking, he should put a shirt on it.

“Because I’m wearing jeans?”

“Because I’ve never seen you uncoifed.”

I don’t know what it is about him that brings out the hobgoblin in me, but every time I’m anywhere near his divine self I’m gripped by an irrational urge to kick his shins and pull his hair, to get a rise out of him. Sadly, it’s proving to be an impossible feat. The man has indifference running through his veins.

“I do not coif my hair,” he replies, running a hand through it.

“Agree to disagree.” The doorbell rings and we exchange a look of surprise. “Construction crew?”

He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. “It’s New Year’s day.”

“Thanks, professor. I’ll go.” Hoping off the counter, I march to the tall window next to the front door.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I hear him shout. A tall brunette is on the front steps, attempting to peer through the wrought iron door.

“It’s a woman,” I whisper shout over my shoulder.

I find him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, brushing the top of his hair back and forth in a gesture indicating what is clearly frustration.

I’m thinking an ex-something, maybe? Maybe. I’m not sure if he’s dating anyone.

“What does she look like?” he growls, the little v back to decorating his brow.

“Pretty, tall and thin, long brown hair. She’s in work out clothes.” I look over my shoulder and catch him staring at my legs. His gaze casually slides away. Men, what simple creatures. And when I say simple, I mean stupid. “She looks like she just got her hair and make up done.”

“Alexa.” More grumbling. I get the distinct impression he’s unhappy about this uninvited visitor. Camilla had mentioned a while ago that Vaughn has a string of admirers. Although, having them show up at his house? Without an invitation? I wouldn’t call it a string of admirers. I’d call it time to reevaluate your life choices, get a whole bunch of restraining orders, and most definitely an STD test.