Читать книгу ROMeANTICALLY CHALLENGED - Marina Adair - Страница 9

Chapter 3

Emmitt Bradley was exactly two days out from a three-week stint in Shenzhen’s finest ICU, and already he was experiencing some disturbing symptoms. Hallucinations being the most concerning.

She was certainly the sexiest little hallucination he’d ever conjured. He’d take it over the blinding headaches any day. Hell, maybe he was still overseas, and waking up to find nothing but cream lace and toned skin traipsing around his house could be some kind of medically induced wet dream.

No, he remembered the explosion, the crushing force of the blast that had leveled both him and the subbasement of the concrete factory he’d been covering. The ride to the hospital and following few weeks were a bit fuzzy, but the cold sweats and stabbing pain as the cabin pressurized on his flight home would be forever branded into his memory.

The doctor had warned him about flying before he was ready. Even gave him a strict list of things to avoid upon being discharged:

Work.

Whims.

Whisky.

Women.

Okay, the last had been his addition, because without bossy women he wouldn’t be sidelined while someone else covered his story. Something he didn’t want to talk about just yet, which was why he’d kept his homecoming on the down-low.

Maybe he’d gone to the local bar and invited some barfly back to see if his bed was too big, too small, or just right. In his condition it was doubtful, but not out of the realm of possibility.

He sized her up with a single glance. Nah, a woman who looked like this one didn’t hang around the Crow’s Nest looking for one-night flings. And guys like Emmitt never offered more.

He was back to the coma theory. And if there was one thing Emmitt knew how to do better than anyone, it was testing a theory.

“Normally, I’d say the more the merrier.” He ran a hand through his hair and—damn—even his follicles hurt. “But tonight’s not good for me.”

Her fear was immediately replaced with contempt. “I’m so sorry to intrude on your precious man-time,” she said, then slung her heel at his head. “Now, get out!”

“Jesus.” He ducked, because hallucination or not, that thing looked dangerous. Bright red, pointy toed, and sharp enough to pierce steel, or—he looked up at the spot on the wall where his head had been two seconds earlier—wedge itself into sheetrock.

“Seriously, who put you up to this?” he asked.

“What?”

“It was Levi, wasn’t it? All self-righteous about dating, telling me my luck was bound to run out and I’d end up attracting one of those Crazy Cuties.” He took his time giving her another once-over, paying extra-special attention to her panties—cheeky cut, if he were a betting man. “You don’t look like one of those. But I’ve been wrong before.”

“Crazy?” She snatched the remote control off the coffee table.

“See now, Goldilocks, you’re missing the whole cutie part.”

She stood there, straddling that threshold between retreat and retaliation, remote poised and aimed for complete castration, and contemplating her next move.

Emmitt stepped closer, dwarfing her with his size, then leveled her with a Come at me, I dare you look that would scare most grown men shitless.

This woman was neither scared nor intimidated. Stubborn, narrowed eyes met his and made him wonder where the meek people-pleaser he’d heard on the phone had disappeared to. There was nothing meek about the woman standing in front of him. She looked like a genie who’d broken free from her lamp. Not that blond babe who granted wishes either. No, this genie looked as if she had a thousand years of anger stored up and ready to unleash on some poor SOB.

“My name is Anh Nhi Walsh. Or Annie if that’s too cosmopolitan for you to manage.”

He was about to inform her that his passport had more stamps than a philatelist when she decided he was the poor SOB.

Clutching the remote for all she was worth, she pulled back and smiled. Emmitt knew that smile well. He’d invented that smile.

In fact, he was the grand fucking master of smiles, with double-barreled dimples that he’d hated as a boy and exploited as a man.

Emmitt Bradley was a certified chameleon who could comfort, intimidate, or seduce with a simple twitch of the lip. But her particular smile promised war—painful and bloody.

So he took that smile and raised her a grin—Cheshire with a just enough How you doing to make her pause—and that was his window. Without giving her time to react, he did some quick maneuvering, pressing her against the adjacent wall, her hands pinned above her head.

With a startled gasp, she looked up at him with eyes that had to be the darkest shade of brown he’d ever seen.

“Let go,” she shouted, her breath coming in erratic bursts. With every breath she took, the lace of her corset brushed his chest, reminding him that, between the two of them, they were barely wearing enough fabric to floss their teeth.

“You done?” he countered. When she narrowed her gaze, he took the remote from her hand, then tossed it on the chair. He gave her wrist one last warning squeeze. “We good?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to take your word for it.” He studied the stubborn set of her chin, her full pouty lips, and those dangerously dark and tempting bedroom eyes that could make a man forget his good sense. She was trouble. And, damn, he loved trouble—almost as much as he loved women. “You break that trust and try to throw anything other than panties my way and I’ll pin you to the floor. Got it, Anh Nhi Walsh?”

She froze the moment he spoke her name. And yeah, it had been good for him too. Kind of slid right off his tongue, coming out more a promise than the threat he’d intended. But hey, he’d go with it. Everything behind his boxers was demanding he rethink that no-women rule.

“Annie’s fine. And my panties aren’t going anywhere.”

He stared her down for a long minute, then let her wrists go. He didn’t back up though. He could pin her to the floor, but he was pretty sure he was sporting a woody and didn’t want to bring any more attention to it.

She must have noticed, because her cheeks turned the sexiest tint of pink.

“Annie it is.” He glanced at his home security panel. The light was blinking a steady red. It was armed. “Now, you want to tell me how you got past the security system?”

She opened her mouth to shout again—he could tell—so he put his fingers over her lips. His head was one word from the jackhammers breaking the rest of the way through his skull. “Quietly. Tell me quietly.”

“I punched in the pass code,” she said through her teeth. “Now you. How did you get in?”

“By unlocking the door I installed when I bought this house.” He jerked his chin to the key ring hanging by the door, only then noticing the starlit sky beyond the windows. It was just as dark as when he’d closed his eyes earlier. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

He’d barely slept a few hours. No wonder he felt like crap. He was thirsty, tired, and needed to pee. Time to tell Goldilocks to start looking for a new bed, because even if his was just right, it was closed for the summer.

“Look, it’s been fun,” he said, running a hand down his face and coming to a hard stop when he reached his jaw. He touched it again and felt the days-old scruff against his palm. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Jesus.” He’d slept twenty hours—not two—losing an entire day.

Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and grabbed a beer.

“You’re Emmitt Bradley?”

“Never heard my name sound like an accusation before, but yeah.” He popped the cap, took a long swallow, then contemplated spitting the liquid back in the bottle.

Whoever thought—he read the label—kiwi paired with hops should be fired. With a grimace, he lowered the bottle and found her standing in front of him, her earlier outfit covered by a blue scrub top.

“Emmitt of the ‘Hey Emmitt, this is Tiffany,’” she said in a perfect barfly voice that was three parts helium, one part phone sex operator. “‘You’d better call me when you get back in town. I had to hear it from Levi that you’d come and gone without so much as a kiss hello.’” She rolled her eyes and her voice went back to the deep, throaty one he preferred. “That’s Tiffany with a Y. Not to be confused with Tiffani with an I, who won’t be back until the leaves start to fall but wanted you to know she was thinking of you.”

Fighting back a smile, he wiped the back of his mouth and set the bottle on the island. “And you know this how?”

Her bare feet shuffled over to the telephone. There was a stack of sticky notes posted next to it. She flipped through them, then held up exhibit one. “This is Tiffany with a Y.” She walked over and smacked it on his bare chest. “This is Tiffani with an I.” Another smack. “Then there’s Shea, Lauren, and Jasmine.”

Slap slap slap.

“Rachelle and Rochelle.”

He grinned down at her. “That was only one slap. Which was it, Rachelle or Rochelle?”

“Both,” she said dryly. “When your mailbox here filled up, they stopped by. Together.” As his grin grew, her lips pressed together until they resembled a single line. “Then there’s Chanelle, Amber, Ashley, Nicole, Sweet P, Diana”—she looked up—“who made me promise I’d write down ‘Dirty Diana.’ Said you’d know what that meant.” That one got a big smack.

“Ow,” he said, but she didn’t look concerned.

“Here.” She handed him what was left of the stack.

He pulled them off one by one, looking for the only message he cared about. He dropped them to the floor as quickly as he disqualified their importance. The further he went, the worse his head ached, until squinting only made things unbearable.

He held the notes back out to her. “Can you find the one from Sweet P?”

“I’m not your secretary.”

“Now, there’s another side of Annie I’d like to see. Glasses, pencil skirt.” He gave a low whistle to which she responded by folding her arms over her chest.

The action didn’t do much up top but gave him a hell of a lot of skin to admire down below. This getup was far less revealing than what she’d been sporting a minute ago, but he liked Hot Nurse Annie almost as much as Stripper Annie.

Almost.

“But just the message from Sweet P will do for now.” He shoved the remaining sticky notes into her hands. When she didn’t move to take them, he sighed. “Seriously, you’ve been squatting in my place for what?” He looked around at the cozy little nest she’d made for herself. “Six months?”

“Six weeks.”

“You did all this in six weeks?”

His normally sparse cabin was decorated with minimal furniture, minimal fuss, and minimal effort. All he wanted was a quiet street with unobstructed views of nature. It was the one place on the planet he could decompress, find a sense of balance and peace.

There wasn’t a shred of peace left. Every surface held a picture frame or stack of old books. His beer stein collection was hidden behind sparkly wine flutes. And the usual scent of cedar was now masked by some kind of flowery candle. Probably the light purple ones burning on his mantle beneath his stuffed moose head.

He blinked—twice. “When did I get a mantle?”

She shrugged.

Then there was his couch. His very manly leather, made for watching hockey and Bear Grylls couch was barely visible beneath 137 throw pillows and a matching blue blanket.

And not a masculine dark blue either. Not even superhero blue. Nope, the big fuzzy atrocity was the same light blue as those jewelry boxes women go bonkers for. And don’t even get him started on the twinkle lights dangling from Bull’s antlers.

Emmitt had barely been upright when he’d arrived from the airport, so he hadn’t noticed the changes. But now they intruded so violently, it was triggering a migraine.

“It’s not permanent, so when I go, it goes.”

At least she was honest about her crimes. Other people, he’d witnessed firsthand over the years, would go to great lengths to hide them.

“Then reading me one message is the least you can do for emasculating Bull”—he pointed to the moose—“and violating the privacy of my messages.”

“Your voice mail is apparently full, so they started calling here. All hours of the night, ringing and ringing, so I began jotting down messages. And you emasculated him when you stuck his head on your wall as a trophy.” She took the stack and flipped through it, huffing the entire time. Then handed a sticky note to him. “Here it is. Sweet P.”

“Bull isn’t real, and he was a gift. Now, could you read it aloud to me?” There went the stubborn set of her chin again. “I don’t have my contacts in and I don’t know where my glasses are,” he lied.

With an exasperated sigh, Annie took the note.

“She’s called a million times—her words, not mine—about this dress she’s just got to have, again her words, not mine.” To his relief, she didn’t do some kind of sex operator impersonation. “She’s saving you the first dance. How sweet.” She looked up. “Although, I bet Tiffani will have a problem coming in second.”

Shit. He’d been looking forward to this dance for a long time, and he would be pissed if he missed it. “Did she say when the dance was?”

“No. Now, is that all, or do you want me to recite her number too?”

“I know it.”

She considered that. “Do you know all of their numbers?”

“Nope.” He smiled. “Just Sweet P’s.”

Paisley’s was the only one that mattered.

“You might want to tell the others so they stop calling. It only leads to misunderstandings,” she said, all kind of hoity-toity in her tone.

“So does pigeonholing,” he said without further explanation, impressed by the way she managed to look both accusatory and apologetic.

It wasn’t his fault Annie had jumped to conclusions. Emmitt worked hard to ensure that when it came to the most important person in his world there were zero misunderstandings—Paisley Rhodes-Bradley was his everything. His beautiful surprise of a daughter who owned his heart.

“Is the woman who’s holding a bridal dress hostage judging me?”

“It’s. My. Dress!” She stuck the message to his chest.

“So you said earlier. I don’t think Clark got the memo.” He pulled off a blank note and stuck it to her collarbone. “Maybe you should write it down for him.”

She looked at the sticky note, then up at him through her raised brows. Neither gave an inch until the tension between them became murderous. Then she smiled, a bite-me smile that was surprisingly a turn-on.

“That’s great advice, Emmitt.” She grabbed a pen, scribbled something, then held it up.

“Fuck off?” He read with a chuckle. “Simple, straightforward, and leaves zero room for misinterpretation. I approve. Do you need an envelope and stamp?”

“It was meant for you.” She tried to stick it to his forehead but she was too short, so she settled on his chin. His five o’clock shadow was too much for the glue, and they both watched it flutter to the floor. “I would never say that to a friend.”

“Maybe you should try. Because from where I’m standing, he isn’t a very good friend.”

“Just because it turned out he’s not my guy doesn’t make him a bad guy,” she said, trying to defend something that, in Emmitt’s opinion, was not defendable. But he’d learned from experience, and she was going to have to come to that conclusion on her own.

“All I’m saying is, exes can’t be friends.”

“How about all of those.” She pointed to the stack of sticky notes. “They seemed ready to get friendly.”

“Those aren’t exes. They’re friends.” He wiggled a brow and she smacked his hand, sending to the floor the notes he was holding.

“Then why don’t you give one of them a call, see if they want to share a bed with you? Because I don’t, and yours came as part of the rental agreement.”

Emmitt choked on the residual bubbles stuck in his throat. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” she purred. “If you want, I can write down the day my lease is up. That way you’ll know how many friends you need to have lined up. I’ll even read it to you.”

Emmitt rarely spent more than a few weeks in Rome at any one time. In fact, since he’d purchased the house a decade ago, he’d spent more time overseas on assignment than in his cabin. So he’d sometimes rent it out as a rustic Airbnb, splitting the profits with his buddy Levi, who managed things while he was gone.

“How much time left on your vacation? Morning snuggles for a few days won’t be so bad. I’ll even let you be the big spoon.”

She moved until she was practically shrink-wrapped to his body. “I’m sure Tiffany wouldn’t mind spooning. But be careful. She might turn into one of those Crazy Cuties.”

“I’m leaving in a few weeks.” As soon as he got a doctor to sign off so he could go back to work. His editor was intentionally following every rule to the letter. No doctor’s clearance, no more assignments for her news desk. Including the one he’d been injured researching.

Carmen was a perfect example of why exes should never remain friends. Three years later, she was still holding his nuts to the fire because he’d moved on more quickly than the Girlfriend’s Guide to Breakups thought respectful.

“Have a nice stay in Rome.” Annie gently took the beer bottle from his fingers. “My lease lasts for another four months and I’m not leaving.”

With that she swished her ass all the way into the bedroom.

“It’s been fun,” she said shortly before the door slammed, and he heard the lock engage.