Page 3 of Mercenary

Mercifully, the lights stay on as I finish checking the last of the birthday batch. I’m in the process of sucking a tiny cupcake-blob off the end of a toothpick when I hear it.

A light tap on the door.

No way.

Sometimes in life, choices just aren’t part of the plan. When fate interferes and bulldozes right over you. Hadn’t I learned that the hard way after Mama’s cancer diagnosis?

Swallowing back the tiny, tempting treat, I stare at the door. The tin roof rattles beneath the heavy onslaught of rain.

Another tap. Not too aggressive. Yet loud enough to be heard over the wind kicking up outside. It’s going to be a nasty one. But so far, no hail and no sirens or any warning that the rain is a prelude to a twister.

I race over to the door and, dismissing all thoughts about stranger danger, and then tug it open.

Rain hits me hard in the face. It’s coming down in sheets. “Hurry,” I say, stepping aside so he can enter.

“Lock it,” he says, moving past me and into the kitchen. The raw gravel in his tone has me working hard at catching his words.

“Lock the door?”

“Yes.”

I stare at him for a second. His gray hooded sweatshirt is in his hand. Why had he taken it off? His blond hair seems brown, darkened by water with drops rolling off of his sharp chin and onto his white T-shirt. A thoroughly drenched T-shirt that now clings to the curves of his broad, muscled chest. A transparent T-shirt, too—not only can I see his hardened nipples but the pink hue of areola surrounding them.

A blush spreads across my cheeks.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

I look down and am rewarded by the sight of his soaked jeans, which has the same form-hugging effect as his T-shirt. And he’s facing me, so . . .

Oh God.

He’s big. In all the right places—not that I’ve ever visited such a place like his. Or anyone’s, for that matter.

He simply stands there, frozen. Letting me look my fill, his eyes narrowing on me like I’m the hot mess of a hunk soaked to the skin and leaving puddles on the worn linoleum floor. I shudder from the dampness. From the mere size of him, six feet two of corded muscle rolled into one terrifyingly rugged stranger. In one hand, he holds the branch and in the other, a knife.

Oh my God.

“Do it,” he orders.

“What?” Do . . . what?

He grunts. “The door . . .”

I offer him my back to hide my face, not wanting him to see the worry that’s bound to be written within my infamously uncensored expression. “Not even your worst criminal would be running around in this,” I manage while taking my sweet time turning the lock on the door handle.

A knife. He has a knife. And it’s no butter knife but a large, wickedly sharp-looking one.

“You live here?”

I flinch. His tone is sharp.

“Yes.”

“You’re Kylie’s sister.”

It’s not a question but a statement. Monotone in nature. Giving nothing away.

Curious, I turn to face him.