She should have known better than to ask him for help. Heaven forbid he just do the decent thing and help a girl out.
But a week had passed and he hadn’t done more than wave at her from his kitchen window or “accidentally” knock over her recycling bin with his lawn mower.
There certainly hadn’t been any mention of her supposed debt.
So she’d forgotten about it. Mostly. Sure, there’d been a few nights where she’d fantasized about the clever ways she’d turn down his undoubtedly crude suggestions. But for the most part, she hadn’t thought about Will.
Hadn’t thought about how much he annoyed her.
Hadn’t thought about how easily he’d agreed to help her out with the tire, even though she’d treated him like crap.
Hadn’t thought about the fact that they could be in each other’s bedrooms in under five minutes.
And she certainly hadn’t thought about what his hands had felt like on her on that night three years ago.
So when his face had popped up in her kitchen window on a Sunday morning as she’d been sipping a cup of coffee and daydreaming about what to do with a day to herself, she hadn’t expected it. And she screamed.
“Goddamn it, Will!” she yelled through the pane as she wiped coffee off her pale pink silk robe. Temper spiked at the sight of his smirking face and she slapped her palm against the glass. And that made her even madder. Now she’d have to clean up the coffee and the handprint.
He pointed in the direction of the back door that entered into her kitchen and disappeared.
Please. Like she would let him interrupt her productive Sunday routine. She had laundry to do. And then she was going to clean the fridge. And eventually she was going to alphabetize her bookshelf, which she’d really been putting off for way too long.
Brynn ignored the first knock at the back door as she cleaned the spilled coffee off the granite countertop.
She ignored the second knock as she got out her organic, nontoxic glass cleaner and returned her kitchen windowpane to its usual pristine state.
The third knock made her smile as she refilled her mug. Rejection would do Will Thatcher good.
But then she started losing track of the knocks because the fifth one turned into the eighth, and then the twelfth, and then there was no end.
Go upstairs and take a shower, she ordered herself. Do not open that door. Not when this robe barely covers your ass.
The knocking went from an insistent tapping to a strange rhythm.
Good God. The infantile moron was tapping out “Jingle Bells” on her door. Clearly he had a death wish.
“Go away, Will!” she called out.
“I love this song, don’t you?”
“Love it!” she hollered back.
…oh, what fun, it is to ride…
“Say, sweetie…I’m out of coffee…”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh? No longer welcome at Starbucks after sleeping with their entire staff?” she asked, wandering to the other side of the door so she wouldn’t have to yell as loud.
“Don’t be snobbish. There are a couple male baristas that didn’t interest me in the least.”
“Lecher.”
“Prude.”
…a day or two ago, I thought I’d take a ride…
“Will, if you don’t stop with that infernal Christmas carol, I’ll tell my mom that you were the one who finished off her favorite Cognac during winter break freshman year.”