Page 3 of Love In Translation
“Oh. My. God.”
Rheo swung her phone back and grinned. “Hot, right?”
“So hot,” Abi agreed. “Turn your phone around, I don’t want to see you!”
Rheo flipped the camera again—sharing was caring—and inspected the neighborhood’s latest visitor. He was tall and built. He sported the wide shoulders of an Olympic swimmer, and the muscles of his big arms strained the bands of his plain red T-shirt. His ancient jeans, faded to a soft dusty blue, clung to long muscled thighs, and his T-shirt skimmed a broad chest and flat stomach. He wasn’t Rheo’s type; even from a distance she sensed he was wild, untamable, and unpredictable. He was trouble with a capital T. In bold.
She liked her men urbane, controlled, stable, and steady. Men like that suited her life. The hottie outside was six-feet-plus of chaos.
“Do you think he’s got those sexy hip muscles, the ones that make a V?” Abi asked, wistful.
“Yep. You do know that we are totally objectifying him, right?”
Abi made apftttsound, so Rheo didn’t pull her phone, now resting on her knee, or her eyes off him.
He turned his head left, then right, looking for house numbers before walkingtoward her house. She sat statue still, rooted to her seat, hoping he’d notice her sitting in the window and then hoping he wouldn’t. Ten yards, five, three...
“Is he heading your way?” Abi demanded.
Yep. Maybe.
He turned his head from his perusal of the street and looked left, and eyes the color of rain-soaked moss collided with hers through her open window. The smack of attraction made her sway, and air rushed from her lungs. His face was better than she expected, with a squarish jaw, strong brows, and a long nose. He was breath-stealingly good-looking.
And in that moment, the concept of instant attraction morphed from fantasy into reality.
It was shimmery...and scary.
Rheo’s stomach flipped, and baby fireworks danced on her skin. All she could do was stare at him. He stopped on the sidewalk outside her house. For the first time in her staid—some would say boring—adult life, a lifeshe’dcreated and loved, Rheo suspected she’d follow a man anywhere.
Rheo sighed as reality strolled in and sat its ass down. Of course, she wouldn’t do anything of the sort. She was the least impulsive person she knew. She didn’t make rash decisions, she made pro and con lists and did feasibility studies. All her relatives, except for Paddy, flew by the seat of their pants, but Rheo always considered all the consequences and chose the option with the least risk of things going wrong.
Sure, she could be a pain in the ass, but was never caught, as her parents so often were, with her pants down.
Except, of course, when she blew her life apart and abandoned her job, apartment, and perfect life. Except for then.
Rheo pulled a face, annoyed. He was a good-looking guy: so the hell what? Too much fresh mountain air was affecting her brain. She needed the exhaust fumes of a polluted city to get her thinking straight.
But that didn’t stop her from scooting to the other side of the bay seat to continue watching his progress. His back view was as good as his front, and his ass in those soft jeans was exceptionally fine.
“What’s happening? Why am I seeing fuzz?” Abi wailed.
Rheo flipped the camera back to look at Abi. “He’s definitely coming here.”
Abi’s eyebrows shot up as the sound of the ancient doorbell drifted through the hall and into the study. “Do you know him? Why’s he there?”
“No, and I don’t know,” Rheo told her. “Not even Paddy knows I’m here—”
“Something that’ssogoing to blow up in your face,” Abi informed her. Her friend took every opportunity she could to persuade her to come clean with her grandmother and the rest of her family. Rheo would when she felt ready and when she found the courage she needed to confess.
Paddy’s doorbell made its about-to-die sound again and Rheo jumped. She stabbed her phone’s screen and cut Abi off—oh, she’d pay for that later!—and hauled in some much-needed air. She had a stranger standing on her step...
One of the problems with being a semi-recluse for four months was that she’d grown unaccustomed to making small talk. She didn’t know what to say or how to act. Rheo had never been great at chitchat, couldn’t flirt, and was naturally shy, not helped by spending much of her childhood with only books for company.
Dear God, Whitlock! Just say hello and ask him how you can help!
Wiping her damp hands on the denim fabric covering her butt, Rheo walked into the spacious hallway. She took a deep breath—surprised that her heart could beat this fast—and pulled open the door.
“Hi? Um...can I help you?”