that tattoo... Her pulse was racing just standing there. He was all hot in his gloriously ass-hugging jeans and broad-shoulder-hugging jacket while she wore a blanket.
“It’s been a long time,” he said, finally smiling. He hesitated briefly before pulling her against him in a warm embrace.
She stiffened. She didn’t want to hug him. He might look good—who was she kidding, he looked frigging amazing—but she knew what he was capable of. What sort of pain he could inflict. She knew that but... His hand pressed, open, against the base of her back. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel the contours of his fingers and the warmth of his palm. And it—he—felt good.
Then she took a deep breath and inhaled his scent. She swallowed, trembling. Dammit. He smelled the same, teasing her...flooding every cell with a steady throb of want. “It has.” She didn’t know where the overwhelming urge to hold on to him came from, but she fought it. It shouldn’t matter that it had been too long since anyone had held her close. She wasn’t going to melt in his arms.
She pushed away from him, stepping back quickly.
His smile faded as he eyed the poker in her hands. “Prepared for battle?”
She blinked, looking at him, then the poker. “What?”
“Or is it some new fashion accessory I don’t know about?” He shot another pointed glance at the poker, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest. If she wasn’t pissed as hell at his sudden and irritating reappearance in her life, she might admire the shift of muscle in his forearms. But she was. She was pissed.
“Where I come from, a woman alone protects herself from strange men hanging off their porches.” She sounded unruffled and together—revealing none of her inner turmoil. “Especially when it’s in the middle of the night.”
He glanced at the open door behind her, then back at her.
“I’m a little tired for company and, since it is late, it’s best if you go,” she said over her shoulder, heading back inside and out of the cold—away from him. Her voice wasn’t shaking. She didn’t look like she was retreating. Even if that was sort of what she was doing. But she sort of had to because she couldn’t seem to get a handle on the way she was reacting to him.
But he didn’t move. He just stood there, a strange expression on his face. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He held up his hands. “If I’d known you were here, alone, I would have said something first.”
“Before you decorated my house?” she asked, holding the doorknob.
He planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Yeah, about that. It was made perfectly clear by the lady in charge that this needed to be done now or suffer the consequences.”
What the hell did that mean? “The lady in charge? Sounds like your wife takes the holidays as seriously as your mother.”
“No wife,” he clarified, placing an odd emphasis on the word no before chuckling. “I was talking about the head of the neighborhood association.”
“Why would they bother you with that?” she asked, more and more confused.
He pulled his keys from his pocket, watching her intently. “Guess Brent didn’t tell you I was renting the place?”
Her lungs emptied painfully. “No, no, he didn’t,” she muttered, reeling. Brent hadn’t told her a lot of things.
“Six months now. After the last tenants left? You didn’t notice my stuff? In the master bedroom?”
“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I’m staying in my old room.” Was this Brent’s idea of a joke? Not that she’d told him much about Spencer. But he knew enough. He knew Spencer Ryan had been her first love and that he’d broken her heart.
And now he was living in her house. The place she needed to regroup and recover.
“You remember how the town gets around the holidays?” he asked, seemingly unaware of her discomfort. “That hasn’t changed.” He shrugged. “I’ve been on assignment for over a week and I’m running out of time. So that’s why I was hanging lights. Now. At night. In the cold.”
He was decorating her house...because it was also his house? It wasn’t some horrible mistake. But what the hell was she supposed to do? It wasn’t like she was going to let him stay. No matter what time of the night it was. But she couldn’t think of a single coherent thing to say.
He shivered. “It’s a damn cold night.” He grinned.
“I guess this means I have to let you in?” she asked, seriously considering shutting the door in his grinning face. He thought this was funny? Did he not remember the last time they saw each other? The things he’d said? She thought she’d never recover.
“That’d be the neighborly thing to do.” He brushed past her, elbowing the door shut behind him.
“Right. Neighborly,” she tried not to snap. Why was he surveying the room?
Why did he have to have that ass?
Her anger died a little. It was really hard to hate him while thoroughly appreciating the way his jeans hugged the muscles of his thighs. And his ass. That was definitely worth a long, thorough inspection. She swallowed, forcing her eyes up before he saw her. But he was still looking around the house, curious. “What are you looking for?”
He turned, his blue gaze pinning hers, and shook his head. “Nothing.”
Obviously he was lying. It was clear he was looking for something. But what. His gaze was far too...intense and probing. And more than a little unsettling. More than a little...affecting. But words wouldn’t come.
“Home for the holidays?” he asked, his voice deep and rough.
She mumbled, “Yes.” Then added, “And no.” Why was she answering him? Why wasn’t she telling him to leave?
His crooked grin caused her heart to thump heavily in her chest. Not the most reassuring response. “That’s cryptic.” He shook his head.
Maybe it was, but she didn’t feel the need to say more. Yet she couldn’t seem to manage, “Get out now,” so she stood there, her awareness increasing and the silence stretching out. He sighed, that gaze never leaving her face. She couldn’t seem to look away. Or think. A cold shower was definitely in her future. Or Chris. Lots of Chris time.
He was saying something, but her mind was too busy processing everything to hear him. Oh, God. In less than thirty minutes she’d gone from content to distressed. And it was all Spencer’s fault. Again.
“I’d offer to stay across the street at my mom’s but she’s got a full house, with the holidays and all.” His words were soft, echoing in her ears.
She frowned at him, wrapping her arms around her waist. “One of us needs to find a hotel.”
“I haven’t slept in a few days, Tatum. I’d appreciate one night in my own bed. I’m not here much—the empty fridge and pantry can confirm that. I’ll stay out of your way.” He did look tired. His blue eyes were bloodshot and there were bags under his eyes. “I don’t even snore.”
“Spencer—”
“I can move into your room,” he offered.
He was sleeping in her parents’ room. Which was good—she wasn’t ready to go there. Any and all memories of her mom could wait behind that closed door for a few more days. “No,” she said. “I w-wouldn’t sleep in there.”
“I’m sorry about your mom,” he said, grabbing her attention.
Tatum nodded. She hadn’t visited Greyson since her mother’s death three years before. “It’s strange to be here and have it so quiet.” She shrugged, not wanting to share with him.
But Spencer had known better than most about her mother and her