pills down, she set the bottle on the floor next to the couch, tossed her head back and laughed.
“Yeah, that’s it…chemistry. Can’t you feel it? It’s…” he said, catching himself in another yawn before he could complete his thought. Six a.m. was going to hit mighty damn hard.
“Oh, yeah, we’re so hot together, neither one of us can stay awake,” she said, her eyes about to give-in to dreamland.
She stretched on the couch, awkwardly varying her position, eliciting his sympathy. Scrunched from end to end, she looked uncomfortable as hell, her neck and head at a bizarre angle against the sofa’s armrest, a Goldilocks in the wrong-sized bed.
According to the nurses, she should sleep off the pain but continue the ice therapy. She didn’t need him causing her grief, which he seemed to do just by breathing. Since she’d cajoled him into being her dog handler, though, he’d take care of them, refill her ice pack then head home. The sooner he got out of groin shot of their potent chemistry, the better off he’d be.
“So where are Dipstick and Darling? I’ve missed them.” He loosened the straps of the now tepid cold pack and removed it from its cover.
“Th…”
“Third floor,” he finished the thought for her. “I’m on my way.”
“Make it quick, Cowboy.” She finished off her water. “We’ll be lucky if they haven’t already pissed themselves.”
Zayne left her cussing on the couch and headed for the stairs. For some reason, he got a kick out of her foul mouth. She was harsh, a bit rough around the edges, but not in a mean way. He got the impression she liked to pretend she was a bad ass lot lizard. Her big and brown, hopeful but used-to-being-disappointed eyes betrayed her tough girl bite.
Little did she know, her rough edges soothed him. Being the son of Kat McDonald had made him tough, tough like an American Idol contestant swallowing and assimilating a Simon Cowell critique.
Zayne shook his head, once more in awe he’d let his mom cajole him into watching that drama with her every week. But it made her happy. And that’s all that mattered.
Hell, after thirty-five years, he had yet to learn how to handle his mother’s harsh honesty, let alone a woman who could meet her match-for-match. If he had to bet on Roxy Vaughn or Kat McDonald, he’d put chips on both their shoulders. Simon Cowell didn’t stand a chance.
Zayne had never been interested in a woman with Roxy’s kind of spitfire spunk, but the sparks she ignited were too colorful not to pursue.
Clear of the Manolo Mausoleum, Zayne ventured into the foyer, checking one more time to make sure the croc was permanently napping. Out of the beast’s reach, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor of Roxy’s tri-level.
Reaching the landing, he entered an open, airy living space that included a gourmet kitchen, with custom, hand-crafted cabinetry. His friend Damian would give a testicle to build rooms for this much money. The workmanship was awesome. Zayne had been raised to recognize and appreciate quality when he saw it, and this spread wreaked high-class, spare-no-expense quality.
Pure upscale, sophisticated urban living in one of Nashville’s most sought after neighborhoods. Roxy knew how to live and live well. Not that he doubted her unique taste wouldn’t carry over from her clothes to her home. The woman possessed class and, in the not too distant past, must have had money to set up this pad. All the more interesting that she freaked out about his truck estimate. Didn’t chicks like her have trust funds to forever cushion their lives?
Scratching noises and whimpers from the third level interrupted his thoughts. Not wanting to wander uninvited throughout Roxy’s home and certain her dogs were in bad need of a potty break, Zayne left the ice pack in the sink and began his ascent of the final flight of stairs. He huffed and grumbled. Despite the craftsmanship, the layout of the home sucked.
But once he
“Yeah, that’s it…chemistry. Can’t you feel it? It’s…” he said, catching himself in another yawn before he could complete his thought. Six a.m. was going to hit mighty damn hard.
“Oh, yeah, we’re so hot together, neither one of us can stay awake,” she said, her eyes about to give-in to dreamland.
She stretched on the couch, awkwardly varying her position, eliciting his sympathy. Scrunched from end to end, she looked uncomfortable as hell, her neck and head at a bizarre angle against the sofa’s armrest, a Goldilocks in the wrong-sized bed.
According to the nurses, she should sleep off the pain but continue the ice therapy. She didn’t need him causing her grief, which he seemed to do just by breathing. Since she’d cajoled him into being her dog handler, though, he’d take care of them, refill her ice pack then head home. The sooner he got out of groin shot of their potent chemistry, the better off he’d be.
“So where are Dipstick and Darling? I’ve missed them.” He loosened the straps of the now tepid cold pack and removed it from its cover.
“Th…”
“Third floor,” he finished the thought for her. “I’m on my way.”
“Make it quick, Cowboy.” She finished off her water. “We’ll be lucky if they haven’t already pissed themselves.”
Zayne left her cussing on the couch and headed for the stairs. For some reason, he got a kick out of her foul mouth. She was harsh, a bit rough around the edges, but not in a mean way. He got the impression she liked to pretend she was a bad ass lot lizard. Her big and brown, hopeful but used-to-being-disappointed eyes betrayed her tough girl bite.
Little did she know, her rough edges soothed him. Being the son of Kat McDonald had made him tough, tough like an American Idol contestant swallowing and assimilating a Simon Cowell critique.
Zayne shook his head, once more in awe he’d let his mom cajole him into watching that drama with her every week. But it made her happy. And that’s all that mattered.
Hell, after thirty-five years, he had yet to learn how to handle his mother’s harsh honesty, let alone a woman who could meet her match-for-match. If he had to bet on Roxy Vaughn or Kat McDonald, he’d put chips on both their shoulders. Simon Cowell didn’t stand a chance.
Zayne had never been interested in a woman with Roxy’s kind of spitfire spunk, but the sparks she ignited were too colorful not to pursue.
Clear of the Manolo Mausoleum, Zayne ventured into the foyer, checking one more time to make sure the croc was permanently napping. Out of the beast’s reach, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor of Roxy’s tri-level.
Reaching the landing, he entered an open, airy living space that included a gourmet kitchen, with custom, hand-crafted cabinetry. His friend Damian would give a testicle to build rooms for this much money. The workmanship was awesome. Zayne had been raised to recognize and appreciate quality when he saw it, and this spread wreaked high-class, spare-no-expense quality.
Pure upscale, sophisticated urban living in one of Nashville’s most sought after neighborhoods. Roxy knew how to live and live well. Not that he doubted her unique taste wouldn’t carry over from her clothes to her home. The woman possessed class and, in the not too distant past, must have had money to set up this pad. All the more interesting that she freaked out about his truck estimate. Didn’t chicks like her have trust funds to forever cushion their lives?
Scratching noises and whimpers from the third level interrupted his thoughts. Not wanting to wander uninvited throughout Roxy’s home and certain her dogs were in bad need of a potty break, Zayne left the ice pack in the sink and began his ascent of the final flight of stairs. He huffed and grumbled. Despite the craftsmanship, the layout of the home sucked.
But once he
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