Page 1 of Sterling Heat

Chapter 1

October

[Enya]

Falling on my backside in front of a handsome man was the last thing I expected to happen today.

Then again, the day has been full of surprises.

After leaving the small-town bakery with only minutes to spare before it closed, a torrential downpour came out of nowhere as I stood on the shop’s stoop. Balancing my tote and a paper bag containing one of the most delicious-looking baby-Bundt cakes, I snapped open the travel umbrella I’d found in the bottom of my oversized purse and risked the deluge.

However, when stepping onto the sidewalk, a gust of wind careened along the storefronts on the quaint main street and jacked my umbrella. The flimsy thing snapped backward to look like an art deco buttercup flower, offering no protection from the cold, pelting rain which rode the wind and came at me sideways. In an effort to right my worthless umbrella, I spun on my heels in hopes the gusts of the gale would snap the thing back into its proper position. The wind took me as well, forcing me backward when the umbrella momentarily expanded. As I tried to maintain my balance, the heel of my over-priced stiletto slipped into a grate in the sidewalk. Struck by the ridiculous physics of a thin spike wedging into an even slimmer slat opening, my ankle gave way and I collapsed onto my ass.

“Miss, are you alright?” The broad and slightly rebellious-looking man from the bakery I just left asked me.

Perfect. Just perfect.

For a moment, I sit on the rain-drenched sidewalk, allowing the chilly drops to batter me, plastering my hair to my face and further drenching my already soaked dress.

This is what I get for wanting to celebrate.

For wishing for something more in my life. For grasping at something I never thought I’d have.

I almost laugh until the concern in the dark blue eyes of the large man standing over me has me swallowing instead. His jeans are saturated at his ankles, above a pair of solid biker boots. His white T-shirt is plastered to his body, the opaque material accentuating dark hairs on his chest and the solid muscles of his upper arms. He’s thick in the midsection. Firm might be a better description. A paw of a hand extends toward me and slowly I lift mine to accept his help.

My umbrella is nowhere in sight. The bag containing my miniature cake tragically sits in a shallow puddle on the sidewalk. My foot has slipped out of my shoe. My wounded pride is the only thing present. I’ve never been so embarrassed. And my backside uncomfortably aches.

“Let’s get inside, yeah?” he yells over the torrent of rain, swiping at his face to clear the drops. His eyes are kind. His voice rough. A sprinkling of silver peppers among his temple and over his ears.

I nod and accept his assistance, as he holds my hand and gathers up the remains of a soggy paper bag. Once we enter the cool breeze of the bakery, he tosses the waterlogged sack on the counter and turns to face me. The thickness of his hand is a comfort as he pushes back my hair, effectively exposing my mortified blush. His gentle fingers glide through the wet strands, tucking an errant lock behind my ear. His thumb trails a blaze of warmth down my cheek. Heat infuses my whole body, from my frozen toes to the tips of my ears. It’s a welcome sensation beneath the cool air-conditioning.

I shiver. Teeth chattering. Tailbone throbbing. I’m off-balance wearing only one shoe.

“We should probably get you out of those clothes.” The depth of his voice has my body humming in a new way, but I still choke around my next word.

“What?”

“Got a change of clothes in that bag?” He nods at my tote which surprisingly remained looped over my arm; however, water drips through the seams. I’m certain everything inside is as soaked as the leather. Why do bag companies make totes without closures? And why did I own something that couldn’t protect my belongings?

Oh right, it matched my now-ruined shoes.

“No.” I can’t hold my teeth still.

“Only speak one word at a time?” His rugged tenor matches the hitch on one corner of his lips, suggesting a smile is hard won from him. Still, the expression is doing strange things to my lower belly.

Or maybe that’s something else inside me fluttering.

Don’t be ridiculous. I only took a test this morning. Surely, I can’t feel anything yet. Although I’d read home-tests are ninety-nine percent correct, I won’t know anything with certainty until I see my doctor.

“I-I’m sorry. I ruined the cake.” Hopefully, he can’t decipher between welling tears and water on my face as I’m on the verge of crying over a silly lemon cake. Then again, maybe it’s simply my emotions which have been pinging all over the place since this morning.

“No worries.” He pauses, stepping back to size me up while tipping his head. His hand still holds mine or maybe mine is clinging to his. I don’t want to let go. His palm is so warm. His fingers strong. “I have a T-shirt that might fit you more like a dress, but it’d be warmer than what you are wearing.”

At thirty-eight, everything in me should clang like warning bells. I don’t know him. I’m not from this town. No one knows I made this stop. But while his sapphire eyes could be interpreted as dangerous, the heat in them glides over me like a protective blanket.

I nod, blindly following him to the back of the bakery, limping on my one heel.

When we step inside the office, he releases my hand. Rummaging through some boxes, he pulls out a large T-shirt with Curmudgeon Bakery on the back. He scowls at the shirt before handing it over to me.