Here Comes Trouble. Donna Kauffman

let her eyes drift shut. Her body tensed. Everything tensed. Everything that wasn’t quivering in anticipation, anyway. And all she could think was…finally. Well, that, and thank God she really wasn’t a pathetic, sex-starved, hallucinating moron. Okay, one out of those three, anyway.

      “Kirby!” a deep voice barked from the back of the house. A sharp rapping on the door to the backyard followed.

      Brett jerked his head up just before his lips brushed hers and swiveled around to see who was calling her name.

      Even through the thick clouds of pheromones, Kirby recognized the voice. She was tempted—so tempted—to just yank Brett right back around and demand he finish what he damn well started.

      “Kirby? You in there?” More rapping.

      Kirby swore under her breath and Brett’s eyes twinkled in open amusement at her unladylike outburst, muttered though it was. She supposed she should be thankful he had a good sense of humor. Where she was concerned, apparently he was going to need it.

      “Shouldn’t you go see whoever that is?”

      “I shouldn’t, no. But it’ll only postpone things.” She cleared her throat, pushed her hair from her face, and tried not to look like a woman who’d just been prepared to be thoroughly kissed. Or ravished. Taken right there up against her own kitchen counter. Goddammit. “What is it, Clemson?” She stepped around Brett, who stopped her with a hand to her arm. Such a big, nice, warm hand it was, too. A shame it wasn’t cupping her face right about now. Or more sensitive areas, for that matter.

      “Need any…assistance?” he asked.

      Oh, he had no idea the depths of assistance she’d like to have from him. “I’m fine. It’s just the farmer who owns the land on the other side of the mountain, up the hill behind me. Stay here. No point in both of us being exposed to his crotchety attitude.”

      As if to underscore her statement, there was another sharp rap on the door, followed by, “Kirby! We need to speak! It’s a matter of great importance.”

      “It always is, Clemson,” she muttered softly. She caught the way Brett’s mouth was quirking again, though not so subtly this time, and impulsively stuck her tongue out at him.

      “Careful where you aim that thing,” he warned, that green twinkle suddenly all glittery hot. He ran his fingertips up her arm to her shoulder.

      She swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. It was the only thing parched about her at the moment. Clemson suddenly seemed like the easier task. At least she knew what she was dealing with where the old coot was concerned.

      She scooted away from Brett, and his glittering green eyes, and big warm hands, and stepped onto the back porch, swearing she heard Brett chuckling behind her. “What can I do for you, Clemson?”

      “You can start by telling me why you thought it was okay to poach one of my prime mouser’s offspring. And don’t bother trying to tell me a story, I can already see the thing right there on your porch. Same coloring as my Matilda. You got a mouse problem in this inn of yours, get your own damn cat. Don’t come stealin’ mine.” The way he said the word “inn” made it clear what he thought of someone—namely her—running an establishment such as this, on property he’d made it perfectly clear was only suitable for crops and cows.

      She’d long since given up trying to have any rational conversation with the man. Like explaining that she hadn’t exactly come along and built the inn there, that the house had been on the mountain almost as long as he had, and that at least it was renovated, occupied, and being put to good use.

      Kirby stepped out on the porch and glanced over at the kitten. Who was looking remarkably adorable and innocent, all curled up sleeping. Though how it could sleep through all of Clemson’s banging and barking, she had no idea. Apparently it took a lot out of a kitten to play demon monster during its waking hours. She looked to Clemson, who was wearing a dark green John Deere T-shirt under a pair of denim overalls that had seen better years. Decades, possibly. And a heavy green and black plaid jacket. What was left of his white hair curled around the perimeter of the shiny dome of his head. He was tall and rangy, holding an old grease-stained tractor cap crushed in one fist and pointing at her with the other.

      “Now, you see here,” he began, only this time Kirby cut him off.

      “Clemson, calm down. I didn’t poach anything. Your little rat catcher there was up my tree and about to fall off. I climbed up and almost killed myself getting her down. I was just holding on to her until I figured out where she came from. How’d you even know she was here?”

      A bit of a sheepish look crossed his face, but it quickly returned to a scowl. “Caught a couple of ’em a few days back heading over the peak. Figured when I couldn’t find that one she’d headed down this way. Was headed down to find her and there she is, right on your back porch. What’s a man supposed to think? And what the hell kind of contraption you got her in? She’s no pampered house cat. She’s straight from two of my best mousers.”

      “This does not come as news,” Kirby said dryly, feeling her stomach twinge all over again.

      “Well, hand her over and I’ll be out of your hair.”

      Kirby pushed the porch door open and waved him inside. “Be my guest.”

      He clutched his hat more tightly and grumbled some as he came up on the porch, his progress hampered a bit by a bad hip.

      “Matilda needs to do a better job monitoring her offspring,” Kirby said as he passed by. “Or maybe you need to make a little kitten corral until they’re old enough to know where they live.”

      He grumbled some more, but she couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, which was probably just as well. He reached down and went to grab the kitten by her scruff, causing Kirby to involuntarily suck in her breath. That earned her a glare.

      “You got something else to tell me about handling barn cats?”

      She thought about the scratches all over her body and Brett’s, and shook her head. “No, but since you have to make it all the way back up the hill, feel free to just bundle her up in that sweater. We don’t need it back.”

      She fully expected him to reject that offer, just on principle, but he surprised her by scooping up the sweater with the kitten nestled inside. The kitten yawned, stretched, seemed momentarily disoriented by what was going on, but didn’t seem to struggle any further when he tucked the sweater, feline and all, against his bony chest. Kirby only hoped that plaid jacket and the denim beneath it were as heavy as they looked. Somehow she couldn’t imagine the little terrorist remaining calm during their entire trek.

      “I’ll be on my way. You see any of this batch again, I’d appreciate a call next time.”

      “Oh, you’ll hear from me, don’t you worry.” And you’re welcome, Kirby wanted to add, but was happy enough to see this situation concluded that she managed to bite her tongue.

      “Who’s we?” Clemson asked as he made his way back down the steps.

      “What?” Kirby asked, confused.

      “Owner of this fine piece of sweater, I imagine.” He jammed his cap back on his bald head and squinted back at her as the sun hit him in the face. “Heard you had a new boarder.”

      Kirby opened her mouth, then closed it again. He’d come down here to give her a hard time for saving his precious next-generation mouser and now he wanted to gossip?

      “Seen that fancy bike. Tell him to stay clear of my property. Damn kids on dirt bikes last summer ruined more than an acre leaving tire ruts.”

      “I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that in this case.”

      “Well, just see that he doesn’t.”

      Kirby sighed a little, but didn’t bother to explain that a Harley was hardly a dirt bike and she doubted her fully grown guest was going to suddenly