Read Online Hot in Hellcat Canyon by Julie Anne Long - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Anne Long
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loose at that narrow waist, which, she thought, left a girl plenty of room to get her hands up in there.
“We haven’t formally met. I’m John Tennessee McCord,” he said, as if there were a possibility she didn’t actually know.
Given that all of her senses rioted merely by virtue of proximity, his presence was paradoxically calming. He was probably accustomed to mute and staring women. Possibly even accustomed to snappish little women. Once again, she got the sense that nothing could surprise this guy, because he’d seen everything, and he could handle all of it.
He held out his hand.
“You’re the talk of the town, Mr. McCord. I’m Britt Langley.” She didn’t take his hand. Yet.
“Ah, the ‘enigmatic’ Britt Langley. A pleasure to meet you officially. Call me J. T.”
And then she finally put her hand in his, because she could hardly avoid it. She was a grown woman, after all.
He held on to it briefly, just a little longer than necessary. As if he knew exactly how squirrelly she was, or how electric he was.
His hand was warm and a little rough and it engulfed hers. Absurdly, it felt both reassuring and terrifying. As if he were pulling her up a cliff she was about to tumble off.
One that he’d pushed her over.
He let it go.
But not before every cell in her body had risen from some sort of slumber and was zinging like a limb shaken awake after she’d slept all night on it.
He studied her a moment.
Oddly, she could have sworn he wasn’t entirely unmoved, either.
There was a refreshing honesty in this quiet, unabashed appraisal. It was very clear he found her attractive and wasn’t the least bit worried about disguising it. And he knew damn well she found him attractive. He clearly assumed she could cope.
And then the bastard smiled. Slowly. As if two of them had spoken all of those thoughts aloud.
BAM, just like that, her breath was gone.
“So you work for the property management company and at the Misty Cat?” he wondered.
“Yeah.” That word emerged as a squeak. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. You’re looking for a place in Hellcat Canyon?”
“Yep. I’ll be here off and on to film on location, and I have a little downtime before my schedule really picks up again. I stayed at the Angel’s Nest last night. A little surprised I wasn’t spontaneously ejected from the place, like Lucifer from heaven.”
Every surface of Angel’s Nest that could be was scented, frilled, fringed, or embroidered. If it wasn’t purple, it was floral. Cherubs and angels gazed sympathetically from frames and pillows.
And she realized she was smiling, imagining him irritably ensconced amid all of that.
“A little hard to picture you there.”
He did, on closer inspection, have faint shadows under his eyes. As though he hadn’t slept well, or much.
“Yeah? Where do you picture me, Britt?”
Underneath me. Over me. Behind me. In me.
Those dirty little prepositional thoughts surprised her. Maybe it was just his drawl that turned everything into innuendo.
With some difficulty she reassembled her thoughts. She actually had a job to do. “I can picture you right here in the Michaelson place!” she said brightly.
Truthfully, she couldn’t picture anyone in the Michaelson place.
“Is that so?” His expression told her that he knew she was lying through her teeth, but he was prepared to be entertained. “When does the tour start?”
“How about now?” She literally threw her shoulders back, the way heroines in novels did, an attempt to bolster her nerve, and strode past him to open the door.
But she betrayed her lack of aplomb by fumbling an inordinate amount of time with the key, as if her hands were newly installed and she was just learning how to use them.
She finally got it in there and cranked it.
Stale air whooshed out when she pushed open the door. They both stepped back as if dodging an escaping entity.
“The owner hasn’t used this place in some time,” she apologized.
He
“We haven’t formally met. I’m John Tennessee McCord,” he said, as if there were a possibility she didn’t actually know.
Given that all of her senses rioted merely by virtue of proximity, his presence was paradoxically calming. He was probably accustomed to mute and staring women. Possibly even accustomed to snappish little women. Once again, she got the sense that nothing could surprise this guy, because he’d seen everything, and he could handle all of it.
He held out his hand.
“You’re the talk of the town, Mr. McCord. I’m Britt Langley.” She didn’t take his hand. Yet.
“Ah, the ‘enigmatic’ Britt Langley. A pleasure to meet you officially. Call me J. T.”
And then she finally put her hand in his, because she could hardly avoid it. She was a grown woman, after all.
He held on to it briefly, just a little longer than necessary. As if he knew exactly how squirrelly she was, or how electric he was.
His hand was warm and a little rough and it engulfed hers. Absurdly, it felt both reassuring and terrifying. As if he were pulling her up a cliff she was about to tumble off.
One that he’d pushed her over.
He let it go.
But not before every cell in her body had risen from some sort of slumber and was zinging like a limb shaken awake after she’d slept all night on it.
He studied her a moment.
Oddly, she could have sworn he wasn’t entirely unmoved, either.
There was a refreshing honesty in this quiet, unabashed appraisal. It was very clear he found her attractive and wasn’t the least bit worried about disguising it. And he knew damn well she found him attractive. He clearly assumed she could cope.
And then the bastard smiled. Slowly. As if two of them had spoken all of those thoughts aloud.
BAM, just like that, her breath was gone.
“So you work for the property management company and at the Misty Cat?” he wondered.
“Yeah.” That word emerged as a squeak. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. You’re looking for a place in Hellcat Canyon?”
“Yep. I’ll be here off and on to film on location, and I have a little downtime before my schedule really picks up again. I stayed at the Angel’s Nest last night. A little surprised I wasn’t spontaneously ejected from the place, like Lucifer from heaven.”
Every surface of Angel’s Nest that could be was scented, frilled, fringed, or embroidered. If it wasn’t purple, it was floral. Cherubs and angels gazed sympathetically from frames and pillows.
And she realized she was smiling, imagining him irritably ensconced amid all of that.
“A little hard to picture you there.”
He did, on closer inspection, have faint shadows under his eyes. As though he hadn’t slept well, or much.
“Yeah? Where do you picture me, Britt?”
Underneath me. Over me. Behind me. In me.
Those dirty little prepositional thoughts surprised her. Maybe it was just his drawl that turned everything into innuendo.
With some difficulty she reassembled her thoughts. She actually had a job to do. “I can picture you right here in the Michaelson place!” she said brightly.
Truthfully, she couldn’t picture anyone in the Michaelson place.
“Is that so?” His expression told her that he knew she was lying through her teeth, but he was prepared to be entertained. “When does the tour start?”
“How about now?” She literally threw her shoulders back, the way heroines in novels did, an attempt to bolster her nerve, and strode past him to open the door.
But she betrayed her lack of aplomb by fumbling an inordinate amount of time with the key, as if her hands were newly installed and she was just learning how to use them.
She finally got it in there and cranked it.
Stale air whooshed out when she pushed open the door. They both stepped back as if dodging an escaping entity.
“The owner hasn’t used this place in some time,” she apologized.
He
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