Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

Even though his face doesn’t change, I detect a smile in his eyes. “I knew I caught you looking at my junk. You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“You almost knocked me unconscious with that thing when I was helping you with your sneakers.”

“It did not get anywhere near you.”

“The tip was this close to my eyeball.”

“Not true,” he says flatly, though he’s biting on his bottom lip in a poor attempt to curb his amusement. “Not even close.”

“How did you expect me to explain the black eye? Don’t answer that. Point is, we’ve both seen each other’s privates and have come away unimpressed.” His smile flattens. “I see a frown. Are you saying you don’t want to be my friend? Because I’m ready to give you a matching lobster claw on your right hand if you answer in anything other than an emphatic yes.”

“I already think of you as my friend.” His steady gaze is all over me again and I’m instantly back to fidgety. I don’t know what to say to that. I stare back blankly, blink a couple of time, scratch my neck. This conversation has lasted maybe fifteen minutes, and I’m as exhausted from the rollercoaster of emotions as if I’d worked a double shift.

“You do?” Might as well go with the truth. And the truth is I’m both surprised and confused.

“Hmm.”

“Then it’s settled. Friends. Let’s hug it out.”

Leaning in, I wrap my arms around his neck, doing my best to keep a respectable distance between my breasts and his chest, because I am a respectable girl of course. Except the moment we touch I realize it’s a mistake.

Too late. Too bloody late. One minute I’m standing, and the next he pulls me in and I’m sitting in his lap. His arms slide around my waist, squeezing tightly, while he plants his nose on the side of my neck and inhales.

Sweet Jesus Christ Superstar.

Every muscle I possess braces, my breath held hostage by the tightening of my throat. To say I’m shocked is a bit of an understatement. I sit there like a lump, overwhelmed by the warmth of him, the scent of laundry detergent mixed with something subtle and uniquely him, the heavy beating of his heart, the pressure of his touch. It bleeds into me and unlocks some of the discomfort.

In small increments, I begin to thaw, and feeling me relax, he relaxes, too. It feels so good to be held I simultaneously want to run out of the room screaming, and tie him up and abuse him like I do my sex toys. Neither of which will happen. Not only is it forbidden in all caps, but I don’t even qualify as a hump. Let’s not forget that beauty.

He’s having a vulnerable moment. That’s all this is. Everybody needs a hug once in a while. Even man-hoes. He’s obviously not getting any from his parade of women. Which is why, I pat his back twice, the gesture wooden and clumsy, and pry myself off his lap.

“Good,” I say, all business. “Great. Glad we had this talk.”

I swear he’s looking at me like I kicked his three-legged puppy. Now I definitely want to run out of the room screaming. “You’re all packed.” I’m pretty sure my smile looks creepy. Positive actually. It’s being held up by sheer force of will.

“You have your Tylenol PM ready?” He nods in response. “I’ll put your suits in the bag tomorrow morning. Good night.” I wave, which ends up looking like a quasi-Nazi salute. The heck is wrong with me? Everything, that’s what.

He watches me intently as I back out of his bedroom. As soon as the door closes, I exhale the breath I was holding, my shoulders sagging along with it. This trip of his couldn’t have come at a better time. Nothing like a little distance to smother the weird vibe that’s taken up residence between us.

Chapter Eleven

It’s been four days since he left and not only does time seem to be standing still, but also, the house has grown twice as large and lonely. The moment Morrison and his men walked through the door the day after he left I knew he’d gotten to him first. The contrite look on Morrison’s face was a dead give away.

“He called you didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“And.”

“And I’m to…uh…do as you say.”

Squinting at the clear lie, I say, “I call bullshit.”

“Fine,” he barks. “He said I should consider myself your bitch until the end of the job or he’ll make sure my license is pulled.”

Sounds about right. “The bathrooms, Mr. Morrison.”

Lawyers…I should’ve known.

Fancy: Burn down my house yet?

The text comes in as my hand is dive bombing into a bag of cheese puffs. You can imagine my predicament. Fingers covered in orange, I try and fail to use my elbow to pause the Animal Kingdom episode I’m thick in the midst of. A text from my roommate? My roommate who is, at present, in Jacksonville. My roommate who has never texted me before. Why is my roommate texting me at one am?