“Well, try living with her. Or almost living with her. She doesn’t like the word no. If I don’t at least look at the problem, she’ll have my head. You don’t want carnage on your hands, do you?”
Her sigh was full of phlegm, making him wince in regret. He was teasing her while she was standing at the door with the raw wind nipping at her. Em wouldn’t like that, either. “Listen, you need to get inside out of the draft. If you get sicker, Em’ll have my head. Just let me take a look, okay? You can trust no one will read a story about you and your hacked-off limbs hanging in a smokehouse in the Plum Orchard Herald. I’m safe. Call Em and check, if you need to.”
Her chin lifted a little, still standoffish. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Patience. She just needed patience. He had time for that. “It’s going to be down in the thirties tonight, Marybell, and if I remember right, this apartment has concrete floors. Great in a hot Georgia summer, not so great in the winter with this recent cold snap. One quick look and then I’m out of your hair. Deal?” He smiled wide, hoping to sway her with his winning grin.
Yet as he held that grin for as long as his mouth would allow, Marybell clearly wasn’t affected in quite the way he’d hoped. In other words, letting him in had nothing to do with the magic of the Hawthorne charm.
While his teeth stuck to his cold lips from smiling so hard, she finally rolled her hand toward the thermostat, keeping the hat pulled down over her eyes. “Fine.” She turned on her fuzzy foot without another word, leaving him to wipe his feet on the small mat outside her door and enter the enemy’s castle.
Oddly, as she made her way back to the couch, clinging firmly to her hat, he couldn’t help admiring her petite frame, even in a rumpled bathrobe. Compact and curvy.
Then guilt stung his gut. Jesus, Hawthorne. She’s full up with snot, and her nose, what you can see of it, anyway, is redder than a poker fresh from the fire, sick as a dog and still, you gawk.
Jackass.
* * *
Like before when the girls sneak-attacked you, remain calm. Walk to the couch. Sit your backside down. Hang on to your hat and say as little as possible.
When Tag sauntered past the couch, he stooped at her feet, making her freeze and stiffen. “Dropped this,” he offered casually, picking her throw blanket up and placing it on her lap before scanning the room and locating her thermostat.
As Tag popped the face of the digital thermostat off, Marybell let her fingers drift to the arm of her couch and gripped it hard. Every cell in her body ordered her to run and hide. Yet her aching muscles refused to unclench.
Watching him from beneath the brim of the ridiculous hat Dixie had given her as a gift when they’d all watched the Kentucky Derby together was like watching the numbers grow smaller on a ticking bomb.
They were sexy numbers, no doubt. Tight, muscled, encased in a pair of jeans that set her heart to fluttering and skipping as if she were jumpin’ double Dutch. He wasn’t classically handsome like his brother, Jax.
On the contrary, he was rough, unkempt, his large hands spotted with a dark-wood stain that had set into the rough calluses on his fingers. His skin was ruddy, hard-weather worn and kissed by the sun. His eyes were an odd combination of brown and gold, as rich and deep as his voice, making her wonder what lay behind them.
As Tag tinkered with the dial, emitting a sound from deep within the strong column of his throat, Marybell fought a sigh of girlish admiration. He was strong and rock-solid, all hard edges and craggy surfaces.
If she wasn’t already flush with fever, she’d swear she was on fire while watching him bend over and scoop up his tool belt.
When he lifted his head, Marybell tugged the brim of the hat down again, leaving only his lower torso for her eyes to feast upon.
If she didn’t stop gawking, at any moment he’d realize who she was and her whole life in Plum Orchard, so carefully crafted these past months, would explode. She’d lose everything. Admiration turned to panic, clawing her gut, making her blood run cold in her veins.
Tag turned to her, not as smiley as he was a few moments ago. “Where’s your water heater?”
Instead of being gracious, or even just a little grateful Em had insisted out of the goodness of her heart that Tag come fix her heat, she pointed to the back of her small kitchen where a door led to the garage.
In fact, she all but grunted the directions like some cave dweller.
As Tag strode past her, his muscled thighs working beneath his jeans like well-oiled machines, he looked as though he was going to stop and say something, then thought better of it because he liked his head attached to his neck, and wandered out to her kitchen.
When Marybell heard the door leading to the garage shut, she attempted a sigh of relief, only to end up thwarted by the crackle of her chest. Hopping up off the couch and grabbing her phone from the end table, she ignored the unbelievable ache of her muscles and the wheeze in her lungs and headed straight for the bathroom, where she took one look at her image and almost fainted dead.
Closing the door, she gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles were white. She was in no condition to apply her “people shield” tonight, so the ridiculous hat stayed. Pulling it from her head, she wet a cloth and pressed it to her flaming cheeks, bright with fever, her body still warring with chills and the sweats.
You’re being incredibly rude, Marybell Lyman.
Mercy, she was indeed. Yet better rude than revealed.
A brisk rap of knuckles on the door made her jump, almost tripping on her work boots, carelessly discarded beside the bathtub when she’d come home last night.
“Marybell?”
Yes, Prince Gruff And Hot? She shivered, at war with his affect on her as much as her wish to remain hidden behind the door until he went away. “Yes?” she managed to croak. Think, think, think, Marybell!
“I just need to grab a few things from my truck. I’ll be right back.”
Her lips trembled, but she managed to force the words out. “Okay...and thank you,” she remembered to add.
Tag’s footsteps rang in her ears just as she sank to the edge of her tub. What to do, what to do? Clearly, she had to leave the bathroom. She couldn’t hide in here the entire time he was fixing her heat. How ungrateful and rude would that appear?
Lost in misery, she jumped when her phone rang, screeching out a Marilyn Manson tune. With shaky fingers, she rode her finger across the surface without even bothering to look and see the identity of the caller. “Hello?”
“Oh, my poor, sweet angel! You sound just dreadful. If this keeps up, I’m calling Doc Johnson,” Em crooned into her ear. “Are you okay? Is Tag there with you?”
She nodded as though Em could see her. Oh, yes. He was here. So very here.
“MB, honey?”
Marybell gnawed on the inside of her lip, perusing the shelves above her toilet, looking... “Yes! Yes, he’s here. Thank you, Em. I told y’all I’d be fine. You didn’t have to bother.”
“Oh, hush. Friends are never a bother. So, has he figured out the problem?”
Not yet, but when he does... She frowned. “Problem?”
“Yes, dumplin’. The problem with your heat,” Em insisted.
Oh, he has no problem with my heat. He’s got me plenty heated. Marybell cringed. Finding this man attractive was absolutely a no-no. “Um, not yet. He’s in...”
“Are you all right, MB? What’s goin’ on over there?”
Realizing she was distracted, Marybell pressed the heel of her