Suddenly You. Sarah Mayberry
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week. She’d requested extra shifts when she’d still been flailing around, trying to work out how to pay for car repairs, and she saw that her boss, Gaylene, had come to the party. The two extra shifts would mean some juggling of Pippa’s schedule, but the extra money would give her the opportunity to build a little nest egg so that the next time life threw her a curve ball, she wouldn’t feel quite so desperate.
In theory.
She thanked Gaylene, then checked the time. It was a little after five. She chewed her lip, then decided that this was as good a time as any to swing by Harry’s place to see if he was around. It was tempting to simply leave the money in an envelope under his door when she knew he’d be at work, but leaving it without talking to him smacked of cowardice, and she wasn’t afraid of him or the argument they were bound to have over her insistence on repayment. Far from it.
Pippa had only been to his place once when Steve had parked in the drive and honked the horn to let Harry know they were there to pick him up. Consequently, she knew the street but not the house number, but the big black muscle car in the driveway put paid to any doubts she might have had that she had the right place. The house itself was nondescript, a seventies brown brick with a neatly manicured lawn and a garage to the rear.
She pulled into the driveway, aware that her pulse had sped up and butterflies were doing a lap of her stomach in anticipation of the battle to come. She checked on Alice and discovered she was fast asleep. Well, Pippa was only going to be a minute, so there was no point disturbing her. She cracked the window to ensure there was a breeze and got out of the car.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge” filtered through the warm afternoon air as she made her way to the front door. She knocked and waited. Seconds ticked past and she grew more and more tense. Which was ridiculous. This was Harry, and she’d already established she wasn’t even remotely scared of locking horns with him.
When he didn’t appear, she knocked again and tapped her foot impatiently. When he still didn’t answer, she stepped back and regarded the house. The music told her that someone was home, and it belatedly occurred to her that he might not be able to hear her over the racket. She walked to the side of the house and peered up the driveway. The side door of the garage was open, and the music seemed to be emanating from there. Maybe he was working on a car or something.
She checked on Alice, then made her way past the house. The music switched to Pearl Jam as she neared the garage and she took a deep breath.
“Knock knock,” she said as she stepped into the doorway.
And promptly lost the power of speech.
Harry was lying on his back on an incline bench, part of what was clearly an elaborate home gym. His chest was bare, sweat glistening on the muscles, his legs bent at the knee, his feet planted wide. A pair of faded tracksuit pants cut off raggedly at the knee rode low on his hips, and his stomach muscles rippled with effort as he pumped a loaded barbell above his head.
He looked … amazing. Huge. Sweaty. Ridiculously masculine. For the first time she saw that the tribal tattoos that snaked around his arms also flowed onto the left side of his chest, licking up his side like sinuous black flames. His pecs were powerfully defined, his nipples flat brown circles. A dark trail of hair bisected his belly, traveling down from his navel and disappearing beneath his low waistband.
She swallowed and became aware that she was clutching the envelope in her fist and staring like a nun at a strip show. She blinked, cleared her throat.
She’d seen near-naked men before, after all. So what if none of them had looked like Conan the Barbarian? It was no big deal. She wasn’t even that into muscle-bound men anyway.
She cleared her throat a second time and knocked on the open door.
“Hey. Harry, you got a minute?” she called over the music.
The barbell crashed onto the uprights on either side of the bench as Harry registered her presence.
“Pippa.” He looked surprised—and, unless she was wildly mistaken, pleased. As though he was happy to see her.
He sat up, an action which caused his abdominal muscles to do amazing things, then leaned over to turn down the volume on the stereo. “What’s up?”
“I came by to drop this off.” She waved the envelope.
His gaze went from it to her, then he snagged a hand towel from the adjacent bench and wiped first his face then his chest.
“If that’s money, I don’t want it.”
“It’s four hundred and five dollars. Fifty for the gasket. Three hundred for resurfacing the head. Twenty-five for the oil filter and thirty for the oil.”
“You spoke to Dad.”
“I did. I took him some beer to say thank you.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did. Just like I have to do this.”
She took a few steps into the room and slid the envelope onto the workbench that ran along the rear wall.
“Pippa …”
She held up a hand. “Harry, you need to let me do this. I am incredibly grateful for what you did, but it’s enough that you gave me eight-plus hours of your time. I can’t let you cover the parts, as well.”
He scowled and pushed himself to his feet, setting off another chain reaction of rippling muscles. She fought the need to take a step backward as he advanced on her, reaching to grab the envelope.
“I’m not taking this,” he said, thrusting it into her hand.
“Well, that makes two of us,” she said, pulling her hand away before he could release the money.
His scowl deepened. This close she could see that his skin was still damp. She could smell his deodorant, too, and see the veins in his arms where his muscles were pumped from his workout.
“I can’t take money from you. Put it toward something else,” he said.
“You put it toward something else.”
Like maybe a pair of workout pants that didn’t seem as though they were in imminent danger of falling off his narrow hips.
“You mentioned being a graceful receiver the other night. Here’s a newsflash for you—you could do with some lessons,” he said.
“I am grateful. But I’m not a charity case. I don’t need you paying my way.”
“Who said anything about you being a charity case?”
An inch of what looked like black boxer-briefs showed at his waist. She felt a little dizzy, a little overwhelmed by all the raw masculinity on display.
“If you don’t think I’m a charity case, let me pay for the parts,” she said, trying to stop her gaze from sliding down his body.
“No. I wanted to help you and Alice. I did. End of story. I’m not taking your money.” He grabbed her hand, slapping the envelope into it. “Save it for when the car breaks down next time, which it will, because it’s a piece of yellow crap.”
He was probably right, but her back went up anyway.
“Just because it’s not some big macho muscle car from the days when dinosaurs roamed the planet doesn’t mean it’s a piece of crap.”
“For the record, there weren’t many dinosaurs roaming Australia in the seventies. And that hatchback is a piece of crap, and we both know it.”
“Fine. Whatever. The point is, it’s my piece of crap, and it’s my responsibility. What you did was fantastically generous, but you need to let me cover the parts, Harry.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Harry.”
He shook his head slowly,