Sultry Escapes: Waking Up to You. Leslie Kelly

I’m in the movie business. Costume design. Did you see the last Cameron film? That was me.

      That was the standard reply, often said with a slightly superior tone, just because that’s how everybody in L.A. rolled. But she just didn’t feel like playing that game. Not here, in the middle of the night, with a stranger. Not after the day she’d had. “I’m involved with fashion design.”

      His eyes didn’t immediately glaze, the way most men’s would. “My sisters would probably love to meet you. I think they were each born holding a copy of Vogue.”

      She ran the tip of her finger across the rim of her cup. “Not that kind of fashion. I work for some of the production companies doing costuming.”

      He grunted. “Movies, huh?”

      Her back stiffened as he reacted just as she’d expected him to. Most people were awed by her connection to Tinseltown. This one, this earthy, swaggering man, just didn’t seem the type. He looked like he could live out some macho, shoot-em-up action film rather than having to sit through one. Of course, what such a man was doing working as a groundskeeper, she had no idea.

      “What’s wrong with the movies?”

      He shrugged.

      “You don’t like films?”

      “Sure I do. I just don’t have much respect for the people who make them.”

      The vision of him being at the beck and call of some spoiled, rich-bitch movie star popped into her head. She had a hard time envisioning this man taking orders from anyone and wondered if he’d gotten tired of being propositioned by his clients. “Interact with a lot of Hollywood types, do you?”

      He eyed her then shifted his gaze away, muttering a cryptic, “Not anymore.”

      Meaning, he had once upon a time?

      Something suddenly occurred to her, which could explain why he seemed like such a fish out of water. “Wait. Tell me you’re not a method actor up here in the wilds of Northern California getting ready to audition for some back-to-nature film,” she said, horrified at the very idea.

      He barked a harsh laugh. “Not likely.” His lips twitching as he lifted his glass, he added, “What about you? Did you come out here all starry-eyed, looking for your big break, and end up shifting gears into costuming when the acting thing didn’t work out?”

      “I couldn’t act my way out of a speeding ticket if my car was on fire and the cop who pulled me over was my uncle.”

      His brow scrunched. “Why would you drive a burning car?”

      “I…what?”

      “If the car’s on fire, why would you keep driving it? Why wouldn’t you pull over and get out?”

      “Are you always so literal?”

      “Do you really have an uncle who’s a cop?”

      She growled, low in her throat. Seeing the twinkle in his eye made the growl louder, so she continued the game of Answer a Question with a Question with a question. “Do you always bait strange women?”

      “Only women who specialize in death-by-kitchenware.” His tone was deadpan. “And those I make tea for in the middle of the night.”

      The faintest hint of his smile made her spine relax a bit. He might not look like he had much of a sense of humor, and his gruff voice sure didn’t sound like it was used much for laughing, but she suspected there lurked a good-humored man beneath the superhot, strongand-silent exterior.

      She lifted her cup. “Speaking of which, you make a very good cup of tea. It was just what I needed. Thanks again.”

      “Tea was a staple in our house. It’s one thing I have in common with your grandfather—he does like his cuppa.”

      “So he does.”

      The way he said cuppa warmed her up inside. She did love an Irish accent, and while his was buried under a couple of decades of blunt Americanism, she still heard the lilt every now and again.

      Another sip. The tea was cooling now, her cup nearly drained, and she knew it had to be close to 4:00 a.m. By all rights, she should be tucked in bed in one of the drafty upstairs guest rooms. But something made her stay. She just didn’t want to be alone in this big house. Especially because she still couldn’t quite reconcile it as being Grandpa’s. He’d lived in a condo in St. Petersburg when she’d been growing up, for crying out loud, about as far from this wild, untamed landscape as one could get.

      “What’s he doing here, anyway?” she grumbled.

      “Who, Buddy?”

      “Yes. What on earth possessed him to come out here and buy this place?”

      “He’s living the dream, from the sound of it. He told me he’s always loved wine.”

      “I don’t ever remember him drinking anything but Riunite Lombrusco when I was a kid,” she retorted.

      “I think his tastes have matured a bit.”

      “Are there even any grapes growing around here?”

      “Not yet. That’s my department.”

      “When’s that going to happen?”

      “It’s a long way off. Probably next summer.”

      “Seriously? You aren’t even going to plant for a year?”

      His shrug was decidedly rueful. “It takes time to prepare the soil, especially since it’s been ignored for so long.”

      “Have you worked at a winery before? Are grapes your specialty?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “So what did you do before you came here?”

      He had tensed during her questioning, and she figured she was being pushy. But asking him about his past was better than asking him how on earth he managed to find shirts that fit over all those muscles.

      “Let’s just say I’ve been digging in the dirt a lot in recent years. This job makes me feel a whole lot cleaner.”

      That was mysterious, but his clipped tone said it was as much as she was going to get.

      “Now, your grandfather’s surgery is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. Why don’t you grab a few hours’ sleep and we’ll try to get to the hospital at around eight?”

      “All right.”

      Rising, she picked up her cup, and his, carrying them over to the sink. She noted that, while brewing the tea, Oliver had stuck the pots and pans in the dishwasher, as if to get them out of throwing range. Candace still couldn’t believe she’d thought a few kitchen items would stop him if he’d really been some kind of villain. With that body—those strong arms and the table-wide chest—he could pick her up and break her in half.

      Or, a wicked part of her realized, just split her in half with that amazing power tool in his pants. Not having had sex in a while, she couldn’t be entirely sure her memory wasn’t faulty, but if she had to guess, she’d say that had been a good eight inches of jackhammer straining against his zipper.

      “Need a hand?”

      She started, not having realized he’d left the table and walked up behind her. It was bad enough to be caught thinking he had an amazing body, but even worse to be standing here wondering about the size of the man’s johnson.

      “No, thank you,” she said, hearing the breathiness in her voice. He was just so close, so big and warm. All she could think about was how it had felt to be pressed against him, his hands on her hips, his salt-tinged skin against her mouth.

      It had been a long time since she’d been close to anyone. Honestly, the thought of not being held in a man’s strong arms for five years was almost as upsetting