No Perfect Hero Read online

“Thanks.” I rattle off my number quickly, along with my old home address and billing zip code.

  Technically, I guess right now I’m homeless. I wasted no time walking the hell out and breaking our lease after Eddy's two-timing escapades, but the old Seattle digits will do for now.

  While my trusty attendant hums to himself, I turn around, taking in the room around me.

  This place has a soft touch to it, little vases full of fresh-cut pink peonies everywhere, gauzy white curtains draped over the windows so the sunlight makes them glow as it streams in. The light gives the room a sort of quiet, muted radiance.

  It’s nice. I’d like to paint the special way the light beams in, turning almost misty as it slants across the carpet. Whoever owns this place has an eye for comfort, and I throw a glance back at the front desk, suspecting it's not him.

  Perfect timing. The old man’s done, printing out my receipt to sign, and pushing a key across the desk just as Tara comes out of the bathroom, moving in that prim, princess-like way that says she’s got her groove back with her bladder weighing a pound less, thank you very much.

  I toss her a grin and turn to thank the old man, swiping the key and my card in exchange for a pen scribble.

  “Thanks,” I say. “What’s your name?”

  “Flynn,” he answers. “Flynn Bitters. At your service anytime.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bitters,” I say, lifting my hand in a wave. “Just have the mechanic give me a call. No need to rush, we can probably stay a few days.”

  Tara looks up at me with wide eyes as we step outside into the brisk, warm summer afternoon. “We’re...staying here?”

  “Just for a little while,” I answer. “Call it a mini-vacay until the car’s straightened out. We’ll soak up the sun, kick up our feet, maybe take in the sights and try some local food. This place looks fun.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I dunno, Auntie Hay. It’s so tiny...there wasn’t even a name on Google.”

  “There was a name on the sign we passed,” I point out and grin. “My darling tagalong, welcome to the illustrious town of Heart’s Edge.”

  The numbered duplex cabin we’ve been assigned to is actually around the back of the main plantation house, almost toward the far edge of the property.

  Good. Plenty of privacy.

  It’s one of the larger cottages, made of unfinished dark wood, maybe cedar or fir. Just looking at it screams it's modernly simplistic and sweetly rustic with its wooden siding and wraparound porch and tall floor-to-ceiling windows to the sides and back.

  But what really gives it soul is the view. The whole unit looks out on a long slope leading down to a cliff with a stunning valley view rolling right up the foot of the mountains.

  My heart does a somersault when I'm really able to stop and breathe and take it in.

  There’s even a hot tub out back. I find it while we're scouting around the little porch, which is settled right in the middle. So, no question that the occupants of both sides either have to share or come up with some kind of scheduling agreement. There’s no one around, though, so once we’re tucked away and settled in, I might just take a little dip to get rid of the soreness from driving.

  Once we’ve finished snooping around outside, we step back up the porch stairs and try the key in the lock on the left side. It jiggles and...doesn't do anything.

  No go. Weird.

  Bitters must've told us the wrong number. He told us we were Cabin 31-A, not 31-B.

  No big deal. I slip the key into the lock for 31-B on the right side, and it twists open immediately.

  We step into a cozy space, full of light shining off soft wood tones, with furniture in dark, earthy, welcoming shades. It’s a little like Martha Stewart meets Mountain Home Magazine, and I’m loving the vibe.

  My niece creeps in shyly behind me, peering around.

  “We're fine. Looks newer in here than I would've guessed.” I flash Tara a disarming smile and dump my bag on the sofa. “Let’s check out the beds. This place looks big enough that we might even get separate bedrooms.”

  “If we don’t,” she says chirpily, already heading toward the hall, “we can just act like it’s a sleepover!”

  I can’t help watching her fondly as I follow.

  She’s so resilient, so adaptable, putting the best face on everything. I miss when I was still that bright and optimistic and easily excited. But heck, maybe I can take a life lesson or two from a ten-year-old bumblebee.

  Find the bright side to everything, appreciate new, and just move on.

  But I'm too busy moving into the first bedroom off the hall to guess what's coming.

  A big, rough hand grips my shoulder, spins me around, and the wall thumps hard against my back.

  Holy –

  Before I even have time to blink, there's a behemoth on me, a charging bull, appearing out of nowhere, walling me off in muscle and pine scent and dark, wily ink.

  I'm too shocked to even scream.

  So I yelp instead, my heart rocketing up the back of my throat, my pulse spiking.

  Half a second later, I'm staring up into a grim, tight-locked, sharply handsome face and livid, hard blue eyes that bore into me as this giant of a man bears down.

  He tightens his grip. Pins me to the wall with enough strength to make me feel like a gnat and enough body heat to make me feel like I’ve stepped into a furnace, burning off him in waves that touch me from head to toe.

  “How the fuck did you get in here?” he demands, snarling low, a vibrating growl I can practically feel slamming into me. “Who sent you? Does Bress know? Is he coming?”

  Holy hell.

  This is new, and I'm frozen.

  I’m not used to oversized men grabbing me and barking questions.

  My brain can’t decide between panic and anger or whether this asshole is getting handsy with me.

  It settles on deer in headlights. Or maybe possum. Yep, that’s me.

  Trigger my fight or flight instinct, and I don’t do either.

  I just lock up.

  Don’t ever ask me to have your back in a bar fight. I’m useless.

  Tara’s more useful, though, because as she comes out of the other bedroom and gets one look at us, she belts out a shriek that could lift roofs for the next mile.

  The giant whips back, letting go of one of my shoulders and whirling toward her.

  Then I guess I’m not so useless after all.

  Because the very second it looks like he’s even thinking about going near Tara, everything in me fires up and I shove his other hand away roughly, glowering.

  “Get your hands off me, you prick!” I snap.

  He just blinks, dumbfounded, his massive fists suddenly hanging at his sides.

  He’s tall – Redwood tall, to the point where I’m not quite sure how he fits in the hallway when his head is almost brushing the ceiling, his black hair a tangle just an inch away from the stucco.

  His t-shirt looks more like something he painted on over thick, corded muscle with not an ounce of softness over chisels hard enough to cut someone. The blue fabric seems only subtly different from the texture of the tattoos snaking down his thick, bulging arms – a maze of patterns, stylized letters, and one simple one with the name Jenna etched in tiny script.

  He drags a hand over his bearded face, the calluses on his palms audibly scraping against his stubble, still staring at Tara.

  “Fuck. That,” he growls, “is a kid.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I bite off. “And she’s with me. Stay away from her.”

  He jerks back toward me.

  Big mistake.

  Without waiting around for another opportunity, I smash my purse across his bluntly handsome jaw, whipping it across his face hard enough to hopefully leave fucking alligator hide imprints in his swarthy skin.

  He staggers back with a grunt. I dash past him, grabbing Tara’s hand and bolting for the door. “Come on!”

  I should’ve known I wouldn’t get far. Goliath may be huge,
but he moves like a cobra – lightning quick and lethal. We make it three steps back to the living room before he’s dodging around us, cutting us off, blocking the exit. Tara and I both draw up short, stumbling back.

  “Move,” I growl, hefting my purse again threateningly.

  Sure, it can't do much damage, but I doubt it’s fun eating a face full of leather.

  Goliath folds his arms over his chest, squaring himself up and looking down at me sternly. “Not till I get some answers, lady,” he snarls.

  “Answers to what? I just walked in here, and you started throwing me around like a freaking ping pong ball!”

  “Yeah. You walked into my suite so—”

  “Correction: it’s our suite,” I fling back, my face hot with frustration, brandishing the key like a tiny dagger. “Bought and paid for. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing in here. Maybe you should be the one giving some answers.”

  Before I can even pull back, he yanks the key out of my hand.

  Son of a—

  “God damn.” He swears, peering at the key, then scrubs one hand over his face with a tired groan. When he looks at me again, he actually looks apologetic, his sky-blue eyes darkening to a simmering liquid cobalt. “Flynn gave you the wrong key. Sorry.” His jaw tightens. “Move along. I’ll get this straightened out.”

  I bite my lip. I really don’t like being ordered around like this.

  But I also don’t want to be standing in the middle of the Incredibly Pissed Off Hulk's living space.

  Reluctantly, I drag myself outside as he throws the door open for us, Tara trailing in my wake.

  God. I really hope he prefers keeping to himself. Because the thought of spending a few days bumping into this jackass again just put a major damper on my idea of a relaxing mini-vacation.

  But as he steps out onto the porch, slams the door, and locks it, I can’t help lingering on the tight taper of his body as he walks away.

  Why is it always the hot ones with personalities like an acid bath?

  Even if he’s a jackass, he’s nice to look at.

  Those jeans love his hips too much, and they seem pretty fond of his thighs, too.

  His shoulders roll as he lopes with that kind of powerful strength that says half of it comes from learning to carry and manage his own massive bulk.

  And his ink...Lord have mercy. We're talking tattoos so wild, so intense, so intricate they call to my artist's soul like a raging fire lures every moth.

  I only got a few good looks at his scowling face, and it wasn't half bad either.

  Midnight-blue eyes. Trimmed beard. Hair just a little too dark and thick, joining with his beard to form a rough halo of explosive testosterone around his face.

  So there’s something about that.

  Something I like.

  Maybe it's because Eddy was nothing like him, skinny and refined and boy pretty.

  Maybe it's because Eddy hid his rotten personality too well, while Mr. Goliath wears his asshole badge on his sleeve.

  Maybe it's because I'm still just trying to decipher what the hell even happened.

  See? I am picking up Tara’s habits, looking at the bright side.

  Tara frowns, draping herself against the porch railing, watching him go. “He was kind of a butt, wasn't he, Auntie Hay?”

  “Swear jar,” I remind her and sigh, leaning next to her. “I think he’s our new neighbor for the next few days.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “I guess,” I say, “he’s going to swap our key.”

  I can't shake that gnawing feeling as we stand around a little longer.

  Please, just this once, let something go right.

  Please just let the key swap be the end of my drama with this caveman and his temper tantrums.

  Turns out, he wasn’t going to swap our key.

  Tara and I have relocated to the back patio for now and sprawled ourselves out across a couple of very nice, plush patio chairs to wait for our new key.

  I’m not going anywhere, anyway.

  My bag’s still on the couch in that jerk’s place, and he’s locked us out. It’s just the right temperature outside to bask in the sun, anyway, with late afternoon trending toward evening – still warm enough to enjoy the bake without sweltering or worrying about sunscreen.

  I’m close to dozing off when I’m snapped awake by the feeling of my bag landing on my stomach.

  “Oof!”

  I open my eyes, clutching at it and curling forward a little.

  Asshole Extraordinaire stands over me, huge arms folded over his chest again like he’s making a bulwark out of himself, those hard blue eyes raking over me. I didn’t even hear him come back, he’s quiet like a lion.

  Glowering up at him, I set my bag on the floor between the lounge chairs. “Was that really necessary?” I ask but don’t give him a chance to answer. I just hold out my hand, thinning my lips. “So where's the key?”

  “No key,” he answers firmly. “I just bought out your side of the cabin. So you and your munchkin can be on your way somewhere else. I need my privacy.”

  “I’m no munchkin,” Tara huffs. “I’m ten!”

  “She’s ten,” I repeat, scowling at him. “And you don’t get to kick us out. We’re paying customers. Last I checked, you don't own this place.”

  “If money’s what you’re worried about, I’ll pay you back double the room rate you paid Flynn.”

  I eye him. What?

  This is just getting...weird. And suspicious.

  Why does he need to be alone so desperately that he’ll not only buy out the room rate, but spend even more to pay me back? Does this guy have a criminal background or something?

  I shake my head. “Well, even if I wanted to take you up on your offer, I’m not going anywhere. I can’t.”

  He arches one thick brow. “And why the hell not?”

  “Our car broke down. Not that it’s any of your business, and not that I should have to justify myself to you,” I throw back. “And since this is the only game in town and the only room left, I’m not going anywhere unless you want to push my car all the way to the next town over.”

  An odd transformation passes over the jerk’s face.

  He actually looks worried for a moment. At least, I think that’s worry and not heartburn.

  Then he scowls like he’s annoyed with himself for daring to feel a pang of guilt. There's worry again, then just grim resignation.

  Goliath sighs, the sharp crags of his brows drawing together as he closes his eyes and rubs a thick, coarsely shaped hand over his face.

  “I’m guessing Flynn called Stewart up at the garage about your car.”

  “I wouldn’t know since the only thing I’ve been able to deal with since getting here is you. Guess I wouldn’t be surprised if Flynn didn’t bother calling about my car since you told him I’m leaving.”

  There's that worried look again. He reaches up, pinches between his brows, almost pained, before he closes his eyes again and presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  “I said,” he growls, “forget it. I’m not gonna dump you out on the street in a busted car with nowhere to go and a mun—” He darts a look at Tara. “A young lady with you.”

  I stare at him.

  Wow. Is this porcupine lunk actually trying to be chivalrous? It's almost too easy.

  I’m not ready to buy it. Or accept it.

  Folding my arms over my chest, I look away from him.

  “I’ll believe that when I actually have a room key.”

  He heaves a massive sigh, raking a hand back through his hair until the thick, dark mass spikes up in a boyish mess, softening the chiseled harshness of his features. “Yeah. About that. Give me a minute.”

  This time I hear him walking swiftly. Instead of that silent cat-like tread, his step is heavy, weary, and even without looking, I can imagine the heaving sway of those massive should
ers.

  This man is just officially too much.

  And I don’t even know his name.

  It’s another twenty minutes before he returns.

  A whole twenty minutes I spend soothing Tara’s ruffled feathers, promising her we’ll go find something fun to do tomorrow to make up for this crap circus.

  I won’t repeat the things she calls Goliath. They might not be swear jar worthy, but they're pretty playground-level mean.

  Even if we both started giggling when she proclaimed him a doody-head.

  Maybe that’ll be his name until we leave.

  When he returns, he just hands me a new key without a word – then turns around, walks through his back patio door, slams it, and firmly locks it without looking back. Not even a proper apology, and that sorry earlier didn’t count.

  Well. Let him sulk and grump alone if he wants.

  I, on the other hand, have the best company in the world, and I think we’ve earned ourselves a movie marathon.

  Key in hand, I marshal us both inside what's going to be home, sweet home for the next few days. We spend a little time getting settled into our rooms, putting our things away before I poke at the hotel phone directory.

  Looks like Heart’s Edge isn’t so small that it doesn’t have a pizza joint.

  Within half an hour, Tara and I are curled up on the couch, sharing a pepperoni and pineapple while browsing for anything that might have Hugh Grant in it.

  She’s a little girl, but she’s got good taste.

  Still, as we flick through the pay-per-view offerings on TV...I can’t help thinking back to that brooding, blue-eyed beast who hasn’t made a sound from his side since the door slammed shut.

  Who the hell is he?

  What's his deal?

  And why does he have me doubting not just the wisdom of staying here in Heart’s Edge...but the entire massive upset I’ve just made of my life?

  Am I really looking for a new beginning? I turn the question over in my head, literally chewing my thoughts in the pizza crust.

  Or am I just running away from one problem and into another?

  2

  Those Flames Keep Rising (Warren)