Allie
The violent blare of my alarm clock yanks me from sleep.
With a groan, I roll over, blindly searching for the thing on my nightstand until I manage to hit the off button. Despite the light filtering past the curtains, I pull my pillow over my head, hoping to steal a few more hours of shut-eye.
Then I hear it. The doorbell.
Cursing, I sit up and swing my legs over the mattress. Who the hell is bothering me at 7 a.m. on my one day off? I rub the sleep from my eyes and grab my phone off the charger to check for messages or missed calls that might explain my visitor.
The doorbell clangs again, insistent.
And there it is in my notifications: the yearly furnace maintenance.
Damn it.
Now, instead of the bell, firm, booming knocks echo through my apartment.
“Fine!” I yell. “I’m coming.”
Too sleep-addled to care about appearances, I don’t bother grabbing a robe. In my pink silk pajama set—just a midriff-baring spaghetti strap and tiny shorts—I shuffle to the door.
Another angry knock sounds just as I deal with the deadbolt and yank the door open.
What I find on the other side stops me cold. My cheeks burn. I curse myself for not putting in more effort.
Because furnace guy is fine.
Maybe five years older than my twenty-three years, he stands a good foot taller than me, built like a rock. His biceps are one flex away from bursting free of the confines of his blue work shirt, and his arms cross over an equally impressive chest. He gazes down at me with dark eyes and a grin on his full, sensual mouth.
“Well, hello, sleeping beauty,” he says, his amused tone matching the smirk that pulls at his lips. “I wasn’t sure if you were ignoring me or weren’t in.” His eyes wander down my body. “Guess you’re just hard to wake.”
Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the morning chill—and what it’s doing to my braless chest. Crossing my arms for some semblance of cover, I glare. “Yeah, well, it’s my day off.”
“Good to know,” he says, his voice dripping with alpha confidence. “That means I can take my time with you.”
My stomach flips. “What?” I squeak.
He half-turns, glancing at the surrounding apartment units—all a few decades newer than my decrepit building—then back at me with that smirk. “Your unit’s ancient, sweetheart. Means your furnace needs a little extra love.”
“Oh.” I force a laugh, embarrassed . . . and a little disappointed? What’s wrong with me? Am I seriously wishing this random stranger would 'take his time with me'? Hell, I haven't even brushed my teeth yet!
“Can I come in?” he asks, dimples flashing as he fights back a laugh.
I take a breath and straighten my spine, dropping my arms and not giving a damn about the fact that my nipples can probably cut glass, and promise myself that I'm gonna get my shit together and behave like the confident, sexy-as-hell woman I am. Or wish I am. I flash a smile and purr, “I thought you’d never ask.”
His gaze dips low again, and I bite my lip, trying to suppress the heat pooling in my core.
It’s way too early for this.
I open the door wider, stepping back to let him in. He brushes past me, his proximity radiating warmth. The contrast makes me shiver, and he pauses, inches away. “Cold?”
I lift my chin and meet his eyes. They're a rich chocolate brown and nearly the same shade as the hair falling across his brow. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To keep me nice and warm?”
He hesitates for a moment, eyes locking on my mouth before he lets out a deep, bedroom chuckle that has my stomach doing acrobatics again. He chuckles low and deep, sending another shiver down my spine, before stepping fully into my apartment.
Away from me.
I try not to pout.
As he glances around, he asks, “You live alone?”
I follow his gaze, spotting the pink throw pillows and romance novels on my shelves. It’s not hard to see why he’d guess. I silently thank past me for putting my vibrator away.
“Figure that out all by yourself?” I snap.
He picks up a battered copy of Fifty Shades from the coffee table, the spine held together with purple duct tape. “No boyfriend, I take it?”
I snatch the book from his hands, holding it protectively. “Leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s fragile?”
He laughs. “Him?” His brow arches. “Yeah . . . definitely no boyfriend.”
Annoyed, I glare. “Do you snoop through all your customers’ homes or just single women’s?”
“Oh, no, sleeping beauty. Just yours.”
“The name’s Allie. The furnace is through there,” I say, pointing to the mechanical closet beside the sliding door that leads to my back patio.
His gaze sharpens. “Where’s the security bar?”
“The what?”
He takes a few steps through my tiny apartment, until his long strides bring him to the back door, then he's jiggling the flimsy lock. “Does this even lock?”
“Most of the time.” I shrug. “What’s it to you?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated. “You’re a young, attractive, single woman living alone. Do I need to explain why you should have a secure lock?”
All I hear is 'attractive.' I cross my arms, hugging Fifty Shades to me, and grin like a fool. Far too pleased with that one word. “You’re the maintenance guy. Can’t you fix it?”
He scoffs, tapping his name tag: Jax Hawthorne, Owner. The opposite side of his chest bears an embroidered logo: Hawthorne Heating and Air.
“I’m here because my techs are out sick. Call your landlord. Get it fixed.”
“Bossy, aren’t you?” I say, stepping back.
“Well, sweetheart, I am the boss.” He stares me down. “I’m going to work on the furnace. Call the office, Allie.” When I stay rooted, he runs a hand through his dark hair. “I’m fucking serious. This shit isn’t safe.”
“Fine,” I grumble, heading to my room to find my phone. But instead of starting work, he just watches me leave, something unreadable in his eyes. I should put him in his place for ordering me around in my own home, but something about that look stops me.
I reach my bedroom. My heart races as I close the door behind me. This is crazy! This guy is a total stranger. Why is he affecting me so strongly? Maybe I’ve just been single for too long. I mean, it has been like six months since my last loser boyfriend ghosted me. Not that he, nor any of his predecessors, had been worth much. Most disappeared on me, just like him. None had ever given me an orgasm. Just my trusty old smut novels and my pink rabbit.
Jax Hawthorne, though, looks like a man who knows how to use the gifts god's given him—a true alpha male.
My mind suddenly runs away with me as I stand there, looking at my bed and imagining him in it. Damn.
I have to get a grip.
Coffee. Coffee is the answer, and even though it's technically my day off, maybe some work will focus my mind.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and redo my hair into a slightly less messy messy bun, but as I stand in front of my dresser, staring into the large mirror hanging above it, I again think of Jax. Of how his eyes had returned, again and again, to my scantily clad body, and I smile at the sight of my clearly peaked breasts. It's nice to be looked at like that. Like I'm beautiful. Desirable.
I shake my head, grabbing my phone and calling work to distract myself. Maybe coffee will help, but even as I lose myself in my to-do list, the sound of his voice cuts through.
“Allie.”
I jump, slamming my laptop shut. “Jax!”
“Did you call the office?”
“Uh-huh,” I lie, still distracted by his presence.
He watches me a moment longer, something dark and liquid in his gaze.
“Allie—” he starts, his voice low.
“Yes?”
He shakes his head, stepping back. “The furnace will hold through winter, but get that door fixed. It’s not safe.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
His eyes linger on me as he heads for the door. “It was good to meet you.”
“You too,” I murmur, confused and deflated.
The door closes, and I sag into my chair. Why does this hurt so much?
