and his large hands in his lap. He stares straight ahead. It’s like he’s got the whole sentinel pose down. He’s wearing fatigue pants and a Brock Lesnar MMA T-shirt. His jaw looks like it was cut by a stone-cutter, and his bone structure is sharp and perfect. Michelangelo would look at this man and give up sculpting because no way could he ever make anything close to this perfect. One look and he would take a hammer to David.
I’ve known men like this before. I mean, not as good-looking, but damned close. It’s called false advertising. Mind-blowingly, drool-inducing beautiful on the outside but jerk on the inside. He’s got the false advertising down better than anyone I’ve seen before. He’s Chris Pratt on his best day mixed in with a crapload of holy wow.
“I’m not falling for it,” I tell him, jutting my chin up.
“Excuse me?” he asks. Damn. His voice is sexy, too.
“I’m not falling for it,” I repeat, slowly, enunciating every word. He furrows his eyebrows and studies my face, like he’s posing a silent question.
“Mr. Johnson is ready for you now,” the receptionist interrupts. I stand up, but the hunka-hunka guy stands up too.
“I’m sorry, but I have an appointment,” I tell him.
“I was here first.” His voice is still like velvet, melted butter with a sharp edge that slices through my pelvic region. He’s looking down at me like I’m a fly that needs to be swatted.
The receptionist stands between us. “The appointment is for both of you,” she explains, looking slightly concerned.
“Both of us?” he asks.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say. “We’re not together.”
The receptionist rolls her eyes and gives me a shove toward the office. “You are for this appointment. Go on. He’s waiting for you.”
The attorney is a middle-aged man with an old-fashioned comb over and a large pizza sauce stain on his striped shirt. My stomach growls, thinking about pizza. The lawyer doesn’t bother shaking our hands. “Sit. Sit,” he urges waving his hands at the chairs. He takes a seat at his desk and opens a file.
“I’m the executor of Eleanor Thatcher’s will.” He looks up and throws me a sympathetic expression. “Lovely woman. She will be missed.” I take his word for it. I didn’t even know my Aunt Eleanor existed until two weeks ago.
“She was a lovely woman,” the man sitting next to me says.
I check him out. He’s young and good-looking. Could my aunt have been some kind of super cougar? “You weren’t her…” I start.
“Her what?”
“No, you couldn’t be.”
“Couldn’t be what?” He never quite relaxes. His body is tense, like a spring ready to get sprung. He narrows his eyes, as if he’s daring me to say it.
“You know,” I say charitably. I don’t want to say it. He’s in his early thirties, and my aunt had to be older than dirt. Was he her gigolo? Were there still gigolos these days?
“I don’t know. Enlighten me,” he says, sounding angry.
“Thor was a friend of the family, and knew Eleanor his whole life, isn’t that right, Thor?” the lawyer says.
Thor nods. “Thor?” I ask, dragging out the word, as if it has four syllables. “Are you for real?” But I know the answer. He can’t be for real. He looks like a Greek god and has a Viking god’s name. He’s all kinds of god and no kind of real, but I don’t like where this conversation is headed. Is Thor going to hone in on my inheritance? This can’t be happening.
“What’s going on here?” I demand before Thor can answer.
“I’m getting to that,” the attorney says and hands each of us a key. “Eleanor left you the High Tide Inn, all of its contents, and all of the land that surrounds it. Congratulations.”
“Why are you giving Thor a key?” I demand.
“Because she gave it to both of us,” Thor says, his voice a dull roar. “You and me.”
“Halfsies?” I squeak.
CHAPTER 2
Funny how things work out. Scratch
I’ve known men like this before. I mean, not as good-looking, but damned close. It’s called false advertising. Mind-blowingly, drool-inducing beautiful on the outside but jerk on the inside. He’s got the false advertising down better than anyone I’ve seen before. He’s Chris Pratt on his best day mixed in with a crapload of holy wow.
“I’m not falling for it,” I tell him, jutting my chin up.
“Excuse me?” he asks. Damn. His voice is sexy, too.
“I’m not falling for it,” I repeat, slowly, enunciating every word. He furrows his eyebrows and studies my face, like he’s posing a silent question.
“Mr. Johnson is ready for you now,” the receptionist interrupts. I stand up, but the hunka-hunka guy stands up too.
“I’m sorry, but I have an appointment,” I tell him.
“I was here first.” His voice is still like velvet, melted butter with a sharp edge that slices through my pelvic region. He’s looking down at me like I’m a fly that needs to be swatted.
The receptionist stands between us. “The appointment is for both of you,” she explains, looking slightly concerned.
“Both of us?” he asks.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say. “We’re not together.”
The receptionist rolls her eyes and gives me a shove toward the office. “You are for this appointment. Go on. He’s waiting for you.”
The attorney is a middle-aged man with an old-fashioned comb over and a large pizza sauce stain on his striped shirt. My stomach growls, thinking about pizza. The lawyer doesn’t bother shaking our hands. “Sit. Sit,” he urges waving his hands at the chairs. He takes a seat at his desk and opens a file.
“I’m the executor of Eleanor Thatcher’s will.” He looks up and throws me a sympathetic expression. “Lovely woman. She will be missed.” I take his word for it. I didn’t even know my Aunt Eleanor existed until two weeks ago.
“She was a lovely woman,” the man sitting next to me says.
I check him out. He’s young and good-looking. Could my aunt have been some kind of super cougar? “You weren’t her…” I start.
“Her what?”
“No, you couldn’t be.”
“Couldn’t be what?” He never quite relaxes. His body is tense, like a spring ready to get sprung. He narrows his eyes, as if he’s daring me to say it.
“You know,” I say charitably. I don’t want to say it. He’s in his early thirties, and my aunt had to be older than dirt. Was he her gigolo? Were there still gigolos these days?
“I don’t know. Enlighten me,” he says, sounding angry.
“Thor was a friend of the family, and knew Eleanor his whole life, isn’t that right, Thor?” the lawyer says.
Thor nods. “Thor?” I ask, dragging out the word, as if it has four syllables. “Are you for real?” But I know the answer. He can’t be for real. He looks like a Greek god and has a Viking god’s name. He’s all kinds of god and no kind of real, but I don’t like where this conversation is headed. Is Thor going to hone in on my inheritance? This can’t be happening.
“What’s going on here?” I demand before Thor can answer.
“I’m getting to that,” the attorney says and hands each of us a key. “Eleanor left you the High Tide Inn, all of its contents, and all of the land that surrounds it. Congratulations.”
“Why are you giving Thor a key?” I demand.
“Because she gave it to both of us,” Thor says, his voice a dull roar. “You and me.”
“Halfsies?” I squeak.
CHAPTER 2
Funny how things work out. Scratch
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