Page 11 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Sheriff

“Looks like you’ve got a house guest, Ms. Bailey,” he says.

chapter

six

Griff

Back inside, her house is dark and still with the exception of the constant hammering of rain. I’m standing in the middle of her living room, dripping a lake onto her floor.

“Okay, first,” Hope says, snapping into motion, “you cannot stand there like that.” She disappears down the hall, then reappears with a towel. All the while she continues talking. “You’re going to catch pneumonia. I have a lot of skills, but nursemaid isn’t one of them.” She shoves the towel at me and steers me into the hall. “You need to get out of those clothes.”

“I’m not taking off my clothes.”

“You’re soaked to the bone, Sheriff; this isn’t a proposition, it’s triage. And truthfully, this wood floor is practically the only thing that doesn’t need work in this house, so I’d prefer if you didn’t ruin it.” She plants both hands on my back—I could stop her; I outweigh her by a hundred pounds. But I don’t stop her as she pushes me toward the bathroom like I’m a stubborn cow she’s moving through a gate. She points. “Shower. Hot. There are more towels. I will find you something dry if it kills me, which, given your dimensions, it might.”

The door shuts. I stand there. I take my hat off and set it on the bathroom counter. I look at myself in her mirror, water drips from my hair. I’m a damn grown man and I’ve just been herded into the bathroom by a woman the size of a garden gnome. She instructed me to take a shower. She’s a bossy little thing.

My first thought is to pull her in here with me. Maybe a night indulging all the fantasies I’ve had about her voluptuous curves would cure my desire.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I am not going to survive this night.

Still, I get in the shower because I know she’s right. And because for one merciful minute the water’s loud enough to drown out my thoughts. The constant thoughts about Hope and her wide smile and even wider hips.

Despite the circumstances of the flood, the potential danger and my being stranded at her house, my body is still very much aware that she’s close by.

My dick grows heavy and thick. I ignore it for a while, letting the hot water beat down on my back. But once I’ve lathered up with her shampoo, I’ve lost the battle. The sweet scent of her fills the space around me, and my balls ache with the need to release.

I acknowledge that it’s better for me to jack off in her shower than to walk around all night with a fucking hard on. So I take myself in hand. I brace my hand on the pink tile wall of the shower. I swallow my groan as I shuttle my hand against my length. Fuck me, that feels good.

I close my eyes and let myself imagine her. Her on her knees, her sweet lips opening wide. Her bent over the arm of the couch, me pounding into her from behind, my hands gripping those plump hips. Her riding my dick, her full tits bouncing with every movement.

“Fuck,” I growl and spray my release on the porcelain tub. I watch it circle, then go down the drain. I lean my face on the cool tile wall, breathing heavy and full, recognizing I’m in far more trouble than I thought with this woman.

I step out and dry myself. There was nothing noble about what I just did. It was nothing more than damage control. Pretty much the only prayer I’ve got so that I can walk back out there and keep my hands to myself.

It helps for approximately ninety seconds.

Then I go to get dressed and discover the flaw in the plan: nothing this woman owns will fit me. I’m more than a head taller than her and broad enough that I’ve never been able to buy a shirt in the regular men’s section. She’s left a stack on the counter, apologetic Post-it on top—sorry, it’s this or the towels—and under it is a robe.

Of course it’s not just a bathrobe. Nope. It’s a fluffy white one with yellow rubber ducks all over it. Fuck my life.

I put it on because the alternative is a wet uniform, and I tie it, and I look in the mirror again, and I want to walk directly into the flood. It hits me mid-thigh. The sleeves quit somewhere north of my forearms. I look like a bouncer who lost a bet at a bachelorette party.

I hold the front closed with one fist, and I go out to face her. I’d rather just get it over with.

She takes one look at me and presses her lips together so hard they go white.

“Don’t,” I say.

“I’m not—” A sound escapes her, strangled. “I’m not saying anything.”

“Your face is saying everything.”

“You look so pretty,” she manages, and then she loses it, doubles over the counter laughing, and God help me, the sound goes straight through the middle of my chest and lodges there. I have to look away from her before I do something incredibly stupid.

Like drop down on my knees and ask her to marry me.