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He’s about my age, maybe just a smidge older than my twenty-seven, but it’s hard to say. He’s taller than my own five-eight by at least five inches. He’s broad chested and dressed in a grey Henley and—dear God, help me—gray sweatpants. He’s got near black hair that’s standing up on end. He’s just shy of traditionally handsome. His eyebrows are too bushy, his nose is too big, with an odd bump that makes me think he broke it at some point. But his eyes are soulful and his lips impossibly sensual. He’s barefoot and rumpled, like he just rolled out of bed, but he has pink smoothie all over him because I attacked him with the spoon.
“I was just about to escape,” I say.
His hands drop a little and his lips curve into a smirk. “Obviously.”
I narrow my gaze suspiciously. “Prove you are who you say you are.”
He drags his thumb across his cheek to scrape off a dollop of smoothie and then sucks it off. “This is my house. Why should I prove who I am?”
I broaden my stance and pull back the spoon a notch. “This is Mr. Donovan’s house. He’s an elderly recluse. And you’re …” I give him a once over. I’m aiming for scornful, but it probably comes off as lecherous. “And you’re not.”
He stills, returning my gaze, but keeping his PG rated. “What?”
“Mr. Donovan,” I insist slowly. “Is an elderly recluse.”
I am not entirely sure why I’m arguing with this man so insistently.
Even as the words are leaving my mouth, I know I’m being ridiculous.
But I just …
I can’t reconcile this man standing before me with the man I’ve been imagining for the past six weeks.
This man is … okay, I have to admit it, to myself if not out loud… ridiculously hot. He is not elderly. He is not feeble. He is not an old codger.
“Mr. Donovan is an elderly recluse,” I say one more time, and if I had ruby red shoes I could click while I say it, I would do so.
The man in front of me rolls his jaw in obvious irritation. “I am not elderly.”
“Are you Mr. Donovan, though?”
“Obviously.”
“Then prove it.”
“This is my house. I woke up to find you making a smoothie in my kitchen. Which I assume means you’re Savannah. If you’ll just put down your weapon—” he says weapon with a heavy dose of disdain. “—I’ll get my wallet and show you my driver’s license.”
Chapter Four
Ian
* * *
It shouldn’t matter to me how beautiful she is—Savannah, this woman who is my personal chef and living on my property. It shouldn’t matter at all, but somehow, now that I’ve seen her, it does.
For the life of me, I don’t know why it does.
I almost never even notice what other people look like.
After nearly six months of dating Ava, I couldn’t even remember what color her eyes were. I objectively knew she was beautiful because other people kept telling me she was. Now, after two months of not having seen her at all, I have only a vague recollection of blond hair. And a lot of high heels. I only remember her name being Ava and not Eva because that's how my assistant saved her contact on my phone.
So trust me when I tell you, I don’t normally study women, let alone notice their beauty.
Despite that, I can’t stop looking at this woman.
Maybe it’s because she’s here in my kitchen, dressed in a tank top and impossibly short shorts. Barefoot, for fuck’s sake.
Maybe it’s because I only just woke up and my brain is still foggy with theta brain waves and the wash of hormones that accompany morning wood.
