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“Vintage isn’t code for ugly, Colt,” I clap back and he takes another bite of pizza, all calm. Like he didn’t just crawl under my skin for the hell of it.
This is the Colt I remember. Still the same old annoying AF guy. Just a whole helluva lot hotter.
I change the subject, agitated. “Why are you back in town, anyway? I thought you were out in Hollywood, being a stunt god or something.”
“Oh, you were following my career, were you?” He squares his shoulders, eyes raking over my body, and I’ve never felt more exposed in my life. Like he has X-ray vision or something and can see right through my clothes to my lacy undergarments.
“No, I wasn’t.” My cheeks flame and I’m pretty sure my face is turning beet-red.
Because of course I’m following his career. On Instagram, Facebaby—every time his name rolls on a credit, I get a damn alert on my phone.
I may not like the guy, but it’s still pretty impressive to be a stuntman in the movies.
“Okay.” He tips his chin up, giving me a pass, but one-hundred percent not buying what I’m selling.
Whatever.
“You didn’t answer my question—why are you back in town? Already worked your way through every starlet in L.A.?”
“No. Only half,” he says smoothly, not missing a beat. “I got hurt on set. Busted up my knee pretty bad.” He points to an angry red scar along the side of his kneecap. “Had to have surgery and the recovery time’s not exactly short. L.A.’s expensive, so I came home to save up cash while I’m notworking. Plus, the town’s finally getting the land my parents dedicated. So I’m home for the ceremony too.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about the knee, that sucks. But it’s nice you’re here for the memorial, right? Won’t have to make two trips.”
He shrugs, his large shoulders tensing. “Yeah, I suppose. Getting hurt’s kind of a hazard of the job. I’m collecting worker’s comp, at least. But I’m gonna be sidelined for a while. Nobody hires a stuntman with a bum knee.”
“Good thing you’re so charming and managed to get Ms. Lottie to bankroll your stay here.” I roll my eyes, wishing I’d been so lucky. The bastard’s not even paying rent.
“Right?” Colt runs a hand through his still-damp hair and grins, the dimple in his right cheek winking at me, sending shockwaves straight to my core.
Good grief.
How am I supposed to live with this guy? Besides the fact that he irritates the stew out of me, his Adonis-like body’s having some kind of effect on my nether region and I do not like it one little bit.
Fine. Maybe a teensy bit.
But there’s no way in hell I’m ever acting on it.
Because he’s my brother’s best friend. And a known panty-melting charmer who will say all the right things, do all the right things, then leave you high and dry in the morning.
No, thank you.
I’ve had just about all I can handle of loser guys. The last thing in the world I need is to get tied up with Colt Wild.
A wild Wild.
Maybe the wildest of the Wilds.
Nope.
“So where are you sleeping tonight?” I stand up straight and tall, channeling my most assertive self.
Colt glances over at the bed, which looks mighty inviting. “Right there.”
“Uh-uh. No way. I’m the paying tenant here.”
“It’s my bed.”
I bite down on my bottom lip, gnawing the soft flesh. That does seem like a valid reason for him to sleep in the sheets.
