Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter
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He couldn’t get involved with a Strawberry Valley girl and risk hurting his dad. No matter how badly he wanted the girl in question.
She flinched, clearly misunderstanding his meaning.
“I prefer city girls, the ones I have to chase,” he added. Which only made her flinch again. Okay, what the hell was wrong with him?
Tears welled in her eyes, clinging to her wealth of black lashes—gutting him. When Harlow Glass had tortured Dorothea in the school hallways, her cheeks had burned bright red but her eyes had remained dry.
I hurt her worse than a bully.
“Dorothea,” he said, stepping toward her.
“No!” She held out her arm to ward him off. “I’m not stick thin or sophisticated. I’m too easy, and you’re not into pity screwing. Trust me, I get it.” She spun once more, tore open the door and rushed into the hall.
This time, he let her go. Even though his senses devolved into hunt mode, just as he’d expected, the compulsion to go after her nearly overwhelming him.
Resist!
What if, when he caught her—and he would—he didn’t carry her back to his room but took what she’d offered, wherever they happened to be?
Biting his tongue until he tasted blood, he kicked the door shut.
Silence greeted him. He waited for the past to resurface, but thoughts of Dorothea drowned out the screams. Her little pink nipples had puckered in the cold, eager for his mouth. A dark thatch of curls had shielded the portal to paradise. Her legs had been toned but soft, long enough to wrap around him and strong enough to hold on to him until the end of the ride.
Excitement lingered, growing more powerful by the second, and curiosity held him in a vise grip. The Dorothea he knew would never show up at a man’s door naked, requesting sex.
Maybe he didn’t actually know her. Maybe he should learn more about her. The more he learned, the less intrigued he’d be. He could forget this night had ever happened.
He snatched his cell from the nightstand and dialed Jude, LPH’s tech expert.
Jude answered after the first ring, proving he hadn’t been sleeping, either. “What?”
Good ole Jude. His friend had no tolerance for bull, or pleasantries. “Brusque” had become his only setting. And Daniel understood. Jude had lost the bottom half of his left leg in battle. A major blow, no doubt about it. But the worst was yet to come. During his recovery, his wife and twin daughters had been killed by a drunk driver.
The loss of his leg had devastated him. The loss of his family had changed him. He no longer laughed or smiled; he was like Daniel, only much worse.
“Do me a favor and find out everything you can about Dorothea Mathis. She’s a Strawberry Valley resident. Owns the Strawberry Inn.”
The faint click-clack of typing registered, as if the guy had already been seated in front of his wall of computers. “Who’s the client, and how soon does he—she?—want the report?”
“I’m the client, and I’d like the report ASAP.”
The typing stopped. “So this is personal,” Jude said with no inflection of emotion. “That’s new.”
“Extenuating circumstances,” he muttered.
“She do you wrong?”
I’m not stick thin or sophisticated. I’m too easy, and you’re not into pity screwing. Trust me, I get it.
“The opposite,” he said.
Another pause. “Do you want to know the names of the men she’s slept with? Or just a list of any criminal acts she might have committed?”
He snorted. “If she’s gotten so much as a parking ticket, I’ll be shocked.”
“So she’s a good girl.”
“I don’t know what she is,” he admitted. Those corkscrew curls...pure innocence. Those heart-shaped lips...pure decadence. Those soft curves...mine, all mine.
“Tell Brock this is a hands-off situation,” he said before the words had time to process.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Brock was the privileged rich boy who’d grown up ignored by his parents. He was covered in tatts and piercings and tended to avoid girls who reminded him of the debutants he’d been expected to marry. He preferred the wild ones...those willing to proposition a man.
“Warning received,” Jude said. “Dorothea Mathis belongs to you.”
He ground his teeth. “You are seriously irritating, you know that?”
“Yes, and that’s one of my better qualities.”
True. “Just get me the details.” Those lips...those curves... “And make it fast.”
CHAPTER THREE
FOR THREE DAYS, Dorothea sported blue nails—for sadness—as she struggled to rebuild her decimated self-esteem with healthy living. She jogged an extra five miles every evening, the increase in oxygen making her feel stronger. Even smarter! She avoided sugar with the same indomitable willpower she used to tune out her sister’s insults, improving her mood. And last but not least, she worked from sunup to sundown, taking pride in a job well done.
Why should she care whether or not Daniel Porter desired her? He was shallow, and she had depth. She had shucked off her fears and gone after what she’d wanted, while he had clung to old habits. No regrets!
To be honest, she was glad he’d turned her down. She’d never had a one-night stand, had only suspected she would despise running into Daniel after they’d hooked up. Now she knew beyond a doubt.
They hadn’t kissed or touched, but he’d seen her naked, and that was plenty bad enough.
After she finished cleaning her last room of the day, she strode to her own, ready to gather her gear and run another five miles. No, she would run an extra ten miles tonight. The more she sweat, the more toxins she would expel and the better she would feel.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she spotted Daniel in front of her door and froze. He was here. Why the heck was he here?
The horror of her imagination had failed to do this first sighting justice.
“Open up,” he said, not yet realizing she stood behind him. “We need to talk.”
Talk? Face-to-face? Now?
No. Not now, not ever. He looked too good. Good enough to devour. His dark hair stuck out in sexy spikes, and the thick stubble on his jaw suggested he hadn’t shaved since their last interaction. A leather band covered each of his wrists, and his black tee hugged his muscular biceps, the cotton stretched to the max. Ripped jeans and steel-toed boots only added to his appeal.
Meanwhile, she wore scrubs stained from a hard day’s work. There wasn’t a drop of makeup on her face, and several wayward curls had escaped the messy bun on the crown of her head.
Oh, what the heck. An encounter had to happen sooner or later. They lived in the same small town, for goodness’ sake. Why not get his apology over with? And that was why he was here, wasn’t it? To apologize for his boorish behavior. So she looked her worst. So what? She would be checking a worry off her ever-growing list.
Brave and strong, she took a step forward.
Her knees almost buckled as the look of horror he’d donned when she’d dropped her raincoat constantly refreshed in her mind.
Nope. Can’t do this.
Heart karate-kicking her ribs, she tiptoed down the steps. At the bottom, she leaped into a full-blown sprint, racing down the hall and through the lobby, the outdated decor making her cringe.