Til Her Last Breath

Chapter 4

What is it about a man with tools in his hands that is so inherently sexy? Layla wondered later as she sat in a chair in the foyer and watched Nicolas working on the door. He'd already taken apart her old brand new deadbolt and was now installing the new brand-new one he'd gone to the store and gotten for her while they were waiting for dinner. It matched the one on the kitchen door, which he'd already finished, and on the side door that he still had to do, and the same key would open all three. Unless Kent broke a window, which he wouldn't do because that would be grounds for arrest, he wasn't getting into this house.

Layla took another sip of her red wine. Since Nicolas' attention was completely taken up with his task, she allowed her gaze to drift over the lines of his body as he knelt beside the door. He was wearing a dark blue button-up shirt, open at the throat, and he'd rolled up the sleeves so he could work. The muscles across his shoulders rippled, tightening and wrinkling the material, making her wish he'd just take the damn thing off... maybe if she turned the furnace on...? She rolled her eyes at herself and stifled a chuckle which would draw his attention.

She rolled the glass between her hands, watching the play of the muscles in his forearms, shivering a little when he leaned forward and his thick hair fell down, concealing his face from her for a moment. She closed her eyes when unbidden erotic images sprang into her head, of silken, ebony hair brushing across sensitive skin. She shivered. What the hell was wrong with her? She was getting out of a bad relationship that'd probably hang on for weeks, if not months, and she was ready to bounce right into the next bed? Not to mention that she'd only just met this man the day before.

She opened her eyes and looked at him again. Why did she feel like he wasn't a stranger? She didn't know anything about him, yet it was like she'd known him for years. He felt familiar, comfortable yet exciting at the same time. And she knew, without even having to think about it, that if she let this thing that seemed to be happening between them continue, it would be lasting.

"What do you for a living, Nicolas?" she asked, the abruptness of the question surprising even her.

He glanced at her but then quickly returned his attention to the task at hand. "Why do you ask?"

"It just dawned on me that I have no idea who you are, yet here we are, alone in my home, and you're changing my locks. I figured maybe I should find out who I'm trusting so completely."

Trust so completely? He latched onto those words, surprised at how they made him feel, like he could do anything in the world, overcome any obstacle. Her trust in him made him feel strong. He looked at her, sitting on the chair, watching him work. She was wearing an old, faded pair of blue jeans with a tear in the right knee and a threadbare t-shirt that was too big for her, but she was beautiful, and he had to wait a beat or two to get his breath back so he could answer her.

"Fair enough," he agreed. "I don't really do much. I dabble in the stock market, and I do own a couple of corporations, but I have managers for them."

"A 'couple' of corporations?" she echoed. "You must be filthy rich!"

"A little dusty maybe," he said, chuckling.

"And I've got you changing my locks?"

"I offered," he reminded her. "I don't mind."

She took another drink of her wine to hide the fact that she didn't know what to say next. Not just gorgeous, he has to be rich too. Sounded like some trashy romance novel.

"So what do you do?" he asked, filling the silence.

"I do a little writing," she hedged.