The Stick Handler Read online

“God, you’re such a grouch in the morning.” Becca shoots me a wounded look over her shoulder.

  “Doesn’t even have to be the morning,” Val adds with a hair toss.

  “You need to get your nose out of a book once in a while,” Megan says.

  “What she needs is to get laid,” Sylvie informs them all, but her solution to pretty much everything is sex. Problem is, this time Megan is nodding her head in sad agreement as she follows Sylvia out the door.

  “I can hear you,” I shout after them. I shake my head and my mussed hair falls over my shoulders. “I’m still right here.” As I stand there, dressed only in my tank top and underwear, a warm breeze blows in and slides over my skin, a late reminder that I’d opened my window last night before crawling into bed exhausted. Great. Not only could the hot guy working on his car see my roommates drooling over him, he could hear them as well. And they just announced that I needed to get laid. How freaking mortifying. I stomp across the room and yell down the hall, “And don’t bother to close my door on your way out.” As usual my sarcasm is ignored.

  I give the door a good slam, which helps improve my mood a little. With a deep breath, I turn around, not to see my hot neighbor, but to close my window. No way do I want him hearing anything else that goes on inside this place, or get the wrong idea that I might want him. I don’t. Not in a million years.

  I’m completely off guys, trying to keep a low profile. After my ex-boyfriend turned violent and abusive, threatening to kill me if I went to the police, I snuck away under the cover of darkness and put several states between us. His was big and hard like my neighbor, his muscles born from rough carpentry work. Last year, when he came to do repairs on the house I was sharing with friends, I was flattered that I was the object of his attention. At first he was doting and attentive, but as time went by, he became possessive and controlling, and I came to find out later, he’d had other charges against him from numerous other women.

  Jesus, why am I such a bad judge of character when it comes to men. Oh, probably because my only role model had been a mean-assed, alcoholic father who drove my beautiful, caring mom to an early grave and me out of the house the second I turned eighteen.

  If I try hard enough I can still smell the cheap perfume on his shirt when he stumbled in after a weekend-long drinking binge. God, how I hated those women he slept around with almost as much as I hated my Dad. Mom used to try to protect me from his disgusting behavior, but what hurt the most was how dragged Mom down, aging her pretty face far too early.

  My heart squeezes as I think about her. She was a good woman, but was too afraid to leave. Running is hard. I get that now. Not that she really had anywhere to run. Our only other relative was my father’s mother. She’s still alive, living upstate Pennsylvania where my Dad was born. While she liked me well enough, when it came to Mom and Dad, she always took Dad’s side. That’s how it is with parents, I guess.

  I lift my arms, place my hands on the frame, and lean in to give it a tug when the hottie slowly lifts his head. Our eyes meet, hold a moment too long, and I suck in a quick breath as heat zings through me—and dammit, it’s not the autumn sun that has warmth pooling between my legs.

  OMFG.

  With a wrench clasped tightly in his right hand he stares at me, like we’re in a goddamn Mexican standoff. I swallow hard, and will myself to move, but can’t seem to tear my gaze away. Ah, what was that I said about dim-witted moths?

  Close the window, Rachel.

  While my brain struggles to call the shots, my body has other ideas. Ideas that involve staying exactly where I am and ogling the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Blue eyes, square jaw, a body I could play Plinko on, and low riding, well-worn jeans that accentuate bulges in all the right places, and holy hell, the man has a lot of right places. Want prowls through me, hitting every erogenous spot along the way.

  Just shut the window already.

  He shifts his stance and taps the wrench against his leg as he looks up am me. A small grin touches his mouth, and that’s when I realize I’m half naked. Please, ground, open up and swallow me. After hearing the girls, he probably thinks I’m trying to lure him to my room, fix that dry spell I’ve been going through. I grip the window ledge tighter and slam it down, putting the brakes on my body’s reaction, and shutting out six delicious feet of hard muscle and pure testosterone. This is so not what I need right now. Coffee. Yeah, that’s what I need. Lots and lots of coffee.

  I hurry to the kitchen and shove a pod into the Keurig. I pour milk into a cup and set it on the spill tray. As I wait for the coffee to percolate, I wander into the main level bathroom and glance in the mirror. I look at myself and try to imagine how I appeared through the blue-eyed mechanic’s eyes. I see black smudges under tired eyes, boobs that only look big because I’m slender from work, school and lack of proper nutrition and rest. My hair is…wait… I grab a fistful of my curls and examine them closer. Oh, God, pizza sauce.

  Could this day get any worse?

  Christ, even if he did hear my roommates, I’m sure he’d never look twice at a girl like me—especially the way I look now. A guy like him probably goes out with women who are a little more put together, sexier. Although I have to say in the two months I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen a woman come or go from his place. Still, I’m certain a girl next door who always smells like marinara sauce and pepperoni isn’t even on his radar.

  Good, because I don’t want to be.

  The coffee machine beeps and I hurry back to the kitchen. I grab the mug to take a big sip. Heavenly. Desperate for a shower, to wash last night’s work from my hair, I hurry back upstairs to my room, hot mug of coffee in hand. I check the time and grab my clothes. Giggles come from Sylvie’s room across the hall as I dash into the bathroom. I turn the shower to cool, partly because it’s just so hot in the house, and partly because I need to calm my overheated body down. I might be off men, especially big, scary ones like my neighbor, but my body and brain aren’t working in sync this morning. Clearly my libido didn’t get the memo when I left New York.

  I stay under the needle-like spray longer than normal, needing an extra minute to clear my head. When the water turns cooler, I jump out, dry off, and pull on a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I towel try my hair, then tie it back into a ponytail. I forgo makeup. Not only will it melt off my face, I’m not trying to impress anyone or draw any kind of attention to myself. Once done, I grab my purse, shove my textbooks into my backpack, and head for the front door, feeling a little more alive after the coffee.

  The hot morning air hits like a slap in the face and I groan. It’s October for God’s sake. It’s supposed to be time for pumpkin spiced lattes. This is more like beach weather. Mother nature needs to get her shit together. I glance at my watch, and judging by the time—thanks to an extra-long shower—I need to get my shit together, too. This morning I’ll have to take my car to school, or risk being late for class. The walk to campus is long, around forty-five minutes, but I prefer it on days like today. I need to save my gas money for the colder winter months.

  Since my driveway runs parallel to my neighbor’s, I keep my head down, toss my backpack into the back seat and climb into the driver’s side. Thank God the hottie is out of sight and I don’t have to go through the embarrassment of facing him.

  I roll my window down and shove the key into the ignition. I turn it, only for the engine to make some god-awful sound and stall out. My heart races quicker. Shit. Shit. Shit. Frustrated, I give the steering wheel a thump with my fist. This can’t be happening. I need this car. Need to be able to depend on it if I have to run again. I might be an old junker, but it’s all I have. I can’t afford a new one. Heck, I’m on such a tight budget, I can’t even afford to have this one fixed.

  I take a deep breath, throw up a silent prayer, and twist the key again, only for it to cough and gasp, like it’s dying a slow and painful death.

  No. No. No

  A tap comes on the roof, and I turn to see my hot—shirtless
—neighbor with his arms braced over the door of my car. He leans down, his beautiful face close to mine. “Need a hand?”

  “I…uh...it’s not working.”

  Jeez, way to state the obvious.

  He grins, and when I see a cute dimple that contrasts sharply with his chiseled face, I nearly swallow my tongue.

  “Yeah, I kind of got that, you know, being a mechanic and all.” As he gives off a bad-boy vibe that messes with my common sense, he grabs a cloth from his back pocket, and wipes his hands before leaning into the car, his head practically in my lap.

  Holy fuck!

  It takes everything, and I mean everything, in me not to grab the back of his head and shove it between my legs. My sex practically quivers at the visual. The girls were right. I do need to get laid. I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the moan rising in my throat.

  “What…what are you doing?” I finally manage to ask, and will myself not to writhe restlessly, and show him what a needy girl I really am.

  He pulls the hood release, and the front end of my car jumps. His head lifts and once again his face is close to mine. “Popping the hood.” He angles his head, and his eyes narrow. “What did you think I was doing?”

  Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you were taking this opportunity to go down on me.

  “Popping the hood,” I say quickly, and try not to think of sex. Dirty sex. Take-me-up-against-the-wall kind of sex. Not that I know anything about that. Sadly.

  His laugh is rough and deep as he walks around to the front of the car, and I unbuckle quickly. My legs wobble as I climb out of the driver’s seat and follow him. He’s grinning when I reach him.

  “What?” I ask, my voice raspy.

  He touches my cracked windshield washer cap, which I happened to repair all by myself. “Duct tape?” he asks, his voice amused.

  “Tools of the trade, right,” I say and try not to sound as breathless as I feel. A difficult task considering I’m standing next to a half-naked man that I want to run my hands all over. I mean I’ve seen shirtless guys before, but come on. This guy is like a freaking viking. He leans forward to fiddle with something, and the movement shows off impressive bicep muscles. I break a sweat as his closeness sends shudders of need between my thighs. Honest to God, the man is a work of art, and all I can think of is no-strings sex—something I’ve never done before. But that’s crazy and reckless and so not me. Truthfully, if I knew what was good for me, I’d slam the hood shut and run in the opposite direction.

  I’m about to do just that when he says, “Uh, huh.”

  “Is…is there something wrong?” Is that my voice? Christ, I sound like I’m whacked out on painkillers.

  For God’s sake, get it together, girl.

  He rubs the scruff on his chin, and I step back, needing a measure of distance before I actually reach out and run my hands over all his hard grooves and deep valleys.

  “Plenty,” he says again and checks something else. I have no clue what he’s doing. I only know that he looks as hot as hell doing it. As he leans over my car, my gaze slides to his ass, committing the way his pants cup his cheeks to memory. The guy could be in a jeans commercial, or better yet, a Calvin Klein underwear ad. I’m a girl, but advertising like that would have me one-clicking the buy button.

  My heart hammers as he stands again. He turns toward me, but I’m far too slow to react. His eyes are piercing, almost a deeper shade of blue when my gaze jerks to his, and I can’t tell whether he’s thrilled or pissed to find me checking him out.

  I step closer and look over the engine. “So, what is it?” I ask, disgusted with myself. I should not be fantasizing over this man.

  He clears his throat. “I think the first thing we need to do is replace the spark plugs,” he answers, his voice a little hoarse.

  “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” I say, my head bobbing in agreement.

  That grin is back when I look at him. “You know something about cars?”

  I shrug. “Sure…and duck tape.”

  He laughs and says, “It’s not…” he shakes his head. “Never mind. So, you agree then, that something’s not firing right?”

  Firing? Oh, things were firing all right, and lighting up my body like a goddamn Fourth of July celebration.

  Damn him.

  Damn Mother Nature.

  Damn dim-witted moths.

  About Cathryn

  New York Times and USA today Bestselling author, Cathryn is a wife, mom, sister, daughter, and friend. She loves dogs, sunny weather, anything chocolate (she never says no to a brownie) pizza and red wine. She has two teenagers who keep her busy with their never ending activities, and a husband who is convinced he can turn her into a mixed martial arts fan. Cathryn can never find balance in her life, is always trying to find time to go to the gym, can never keep up with emails, Facebook or Twitter and tries to write page-turning books that her readers will love.

  * * *

  Connect with Cathryn:

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  Also by Cathryn Fox

  Players on Ice

  The Playmaker

  The Stick Handler

  The Body Checker

  * * *

  In the Line of Duty

  His Obsession Next Door

  His Strings to Pull

  His Trouble in Talulah

  His Taste of Temptation

  His Moment to Steal

  His Best Friend’s Girl

  His Reason to Stay

  * * *

  Confessions

  Confessions of a Bad Boy Professor

  Confessions of a Bad Boy Officer

  Confessions of a Bad Boy Fighter

  Confessions of a Bad Boy Geek

  Confessions of a Bad Boy SEAL

  Confessions of a Bad Boy Millionaire

  Confessions of a Bad Boy Santa

  * * *

  Hands On

  Hands On

  Body Contact

  Full Exposure

  * * *

  Dossier

  Private Reserve

  House Rules

  Under Pressure

  Big Catch

  Brazilian Fantasy

  Improper Proposal

  * * *

  Boys of Beachville

  Good at Being Bad

  Igniting the Bad Boy

  Bad Girl Therapy

  * * *

  Stone Cliff Series:

  Crashing Down

  Wasted Summer

  Love Lessons

  Wrapped Up

  * * *

  Eternal Pleasure Series

  Instinctive

  Impulsive

  Indulgent

  * * *

  Sun Stroked Series

  Seaside Seduction

  Deep Desire

  Private Pleasure

  * * *

  Captured and Claimed Series:

  Yours to Take

  Yours to Teach

  Yours to Keep

  * * *

  Firefighter Heat Series

  Fever

  Siren

  Flash Fire

  * * *

  Playing For Keeps Series

  Slow Ride

  Wild Ride

  Sweet Ride

  * * *

  Breaking the Rules:

  Hold Me Down Hard

  Pin Me Up Proper

  Tie Me Down Tight

  * * *

  Stand Alone Title:

  Hands on with the CEO

  Torn Between Two Brothers

  Holiday Spirit

  Unleashed

  Knocking on Demon’s Door

  Web of Desire


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