One Hot Summer - Page 146

Dang it.

I’m not authorized to talk about what’s been going on with the bears in Sitka, and we sure as heck can’t afford to lose the tourists by creating a panic.

Lord, that’s just what I need: LOCAL STATE TROOPER DESTROYS SITKA’S CRUISE REVENUE BLABBING ABOUT BEAR ATTACKS.

I shake my head as I put my car in gear and head back to the training center.

She better not print anything I said. It’s not like I actually have a lawyer lined up to deal with it if she does, but hopefully my threat scared her enough to shelve my comments.

Bad judgement, Luke, I think, hitting the steering wheel and feeling frustrated with myself for speaking so freely. You got sidetracked by her bright eyes and snappy comments. You let your guard down.

Boy, did I ever.

But when I think about how I first saw her, leaning against the highway guardrail, hood snug around her head and shoulders shaking pitifully as the rain thundered down on her, my face softens. Her legs were bare, and she was wearing sandals—she looked so alone, so out of her element, I had to stop.

I thoroughly expected to find a damsel-in-distress eager to avail herself of my assistance. What I found instead was a grouchy little smartass with a snotty nose and perky breasts, that, frankly, were bordering on obscene in a wet t-shirt that clung to every curve.

For the first time in a long, long time, I feel my body responding to the memory of those curves in a way it hasn’t since…since…hell, I don’t even know. But my blood’s all heading south except for where it’s flushing my cheeks, and my heart’s racing like a kid reeling in his first Chinook all by himself.

Because of her? I wonder, remembering the dark-red lock of hair that had escaped from her hood and stuck to her cheek. A skinny, moody, city-girl crying on the side of the road for no good reason? A wily reporter with girl-next-door freckles on her nose who pretty much tricked me into talking to her? Is she my type?

My stupid Neanderthal brain lingers on a metal image of her rain-soaked jacket molded to her breasts like a second skin, and I groan softly, shifting in my seat. I’m going to need a moment in the parking lot before heading inside.

She can’t be my type, I tell myself. She’s not what I’m looking for. No way.

My wife, Wendy, was short and brunette with some meat on her bones and a ready smile. She smelled like the fresh-baked cookies she made every day after school for our kids, but she could also set me on fire by stripping down to a mismatched pair of underthings. She was easy-going and kind, good-natured and cheerful. In short, she had nothing in common with prickly Ms. Seattle Sentinel whatsoever.

“She’s not my type,” I mutter, as though saying it aloud will somehow make it so.

Tough luck sucker, my aroused body replies, laughing at me.

It’s hard to argue with biology, that’s for sure.

When my phone buzzes in the console beside me, I’m grateful to have a respite from my own thoughts…well, until I see who it is.

Bonnie.

My Benedict Arnold of a sister, who wrote and placed that stupid, embarrassing personal ad my behalf. Yep. I’m still a little steamed about that.

“What?” I grunt.

“Hello to you too, big brother,” she says. “Having a good day?”

Wasn’t bad, I think, before I found myself attending a danged wet t-shirt contest.

“What’s up, Bonnie? My lunchbreak’s almost over.”

“I found someone.”

“Someone…?”

“The ad? The ad I placed in the Odds Are Good? I found someone for you to go out with.”

“Oh, for the love…”

I’m about to tell Bonnie to forget it when I remember this morning’s encounter.

Hmm.

Tags: Heidi McLaughlin Romance
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