The Grumpy Storm Chaser - Page 6

“The bedroom,” I say slowly. “First door on the right. I had clothes in a suitcase on the bed. Shoes would be on a rack inside the closet.”

He carefully steps out of the bathtub and onto the debris-covered floor. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he leaves, I pull the drain to the tub. Standing, I reach for my towel. It’s no longer there—nor is the wall. It’s a good thing I was in the bathtub, I realize, glancing around the ruined room. And if Colby hadn’t been here to shield my body, I’d have been hammered with falling debris. Would I have survived?

Probably not without injuries. Thank God he was here… but why was he here?

I pick up the shower curtain, using it to towel off as best as possible before wrapping it around myself like a toga. I sit on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for the mysterious stranger to return. He looks vaguely familiar, and I wonder if we’ve met before. Is he also from Mercury Ridge? Have I been so obsessed with Marcus over the years that I completely overlooked this man?

After a few minutes, he returns holding a pair of mismatched shoes. One is a black sneaker, and the other is a lavender sandal. “This was the best I could do,” he says apologetically. “There are lots of men’s shoes scattered about, but these were the only women’s shoes I found.

I smile at him. “At least they’re both flats. It would have been awkward hobbling along in one heel and one sneaker.”

His face breaks into a grin, lighting up his entire face. Whoa. I need to make him do that again—and often.

He kneels, patting his knee with a hand. “I’ll help you put them on.”

I raise my left foot and he slides on the sneaker, tying the laces with care. Then he fastens the sandal to the other foot. “I couldn’t find your clothes. The suitcase was nowhere to be found.”

“I already moved most of my clothes to my apartment. This is my ex-boyfriend’s house,” I explain. “I suppose I’ll just have to wear the shower curtain. They do that at fashion shows all the time, right? Wrap a woman in garbage and call it haute couture.”

He barks a laugh. “True enough. I live in Los Angeles and am constantly confused by what constitutes fashion.”

“Los Angeles?” And suddenly, I realize who he is. I suck in a quick breath, temporarily starstruck. “You’re Colby Raynes!”

He smiles kindly. “That’s me.”

“I didn’t recognize you because…” My voice trails off.

He raises an eyebrow. “Because?”

I swallow nervously. “Well, for one thing, I’d never expected to see you in North Carolina. You live on the West Coast. And for another, you don’t seem, well, grumpy.”

He laughs. “I’m only grumpy in California.”

Chapter 5

Colby

I help Petra step out of the bathtub and we climb over the broken furniture and fallen walls to where the front door had once stood. We turn to inspect the damage and gasp in unison. It looks like someone dropped a bomb on the house. The second story of the farmhouse is gone and will probably never be seen again. The back half of the house was scoured to the ground. A purple Ford Fiesta is wrapped around an oak tree.

“Was that your car?” I ask Petra.

“Sure was,” she says, grimacing. “I just finished paying it off, too.”

“Your truck seems okay,” she remarks. Miraculously, I think she’s right. It was parked on the side of the house that took the least amount of damage. The passenger side windows are busted and there’s a crack in the windshield, but it certainly looks drivable.

“We should probably get changed,” I say, thinking of my wet pants. “As lovely as you look in a shower curtain, I’d bet you’d be more comfortable in a flannel shirt and sweatpants?”

Lowering the tailgate of the truck, I set my duffel bag on it. I hand her a flannel shirt. “Maybe you can swap the shower curtain dress for a flannel dress?”

She takes the shirt, turning shyly away from me. She takes a deep breath and lets the shower curtain fall. I make an attempt to avert my eyes—I really do—but it’s impossible not to look at her. This is my first time seeing her luscious bottom, and my mouth waters to sink my teeth into it.

She slides her arms through the sleeves and starts doing the buttons. From the back, it looks like it fits—but then she turns around. The shirt won’t button over her ample hips, and she’s exposed from the navel down. On any of the women I know in L.A., the shirt would have swamped their tiny frames.

She’s blushing, but a flirty smile dances on her lips. These two things are at complete odds with each other, but it only makes her that much sweeter—and that much sexier.

She brushes a hand lightly over her pubic hair. “I think I may need to borrow a pair of shorts.”