from him, only to die a couple of months later in some alley in Boston from alcohol poisoning. Uncle Marvin was the only one to attend the bastard’s funeral, and then likely only so he could spit on his brother’s grave.
Blowing out a sigh that did nothing to quell his frustration, Trace picked up the sandwich and peeled back one of the slices of bread. And yup, that sure as hell looked like Eve Gregor’s award-winning goat cheese to him, slathered over all that meat.
What a terrible thing to do to perfectly good chicken.
He took a large bite and chewed without tasting, wondering how a person went about getting revenge on a walking disaster without overstepping the bounds of fair play. He didn’t want to actually scare the woman, much less crush her blossoming spirit; he just wanted to pay her back for organizing his tools and turning his home into a zoo, and for the skunks, for his being laid up, and for the goat’s milk.
But mostly, he wanted to make her stop making him want her.
Threatening to cut off all of Maddy’s hair had certainly served him well when his then-thirteen-year-old cousin had caught him screwing Leslie Simpson in the woods behind his house. But he’d dared to make such a threat only because he’d known that not only would Maddy have survived the injustice but the little Peeping Tom would have risen to the challenge. And then the brat would have one-upped him, just like she had last night by stealing his shoes, disabling his truck, and dressing him in Sesame Street pajamas.
Hell, maybe he would put the skunks in her SUV.
As for Fiona … well, old lady Peterson had been a schoolteacher, and Trace was pretty sure he’d seen one of those handheld antique school bells kicking around here somewhere—the ones teachers would ring to call kids in from recess that could be heard nearly all over town.
It could definitely be heard as far as his upstairs apartment.And seeing how it was his tenant’s fault that he was out of commission for a week, he should probably find that bell and ring it whenever he needed something.
Hell, maybe he’d been going about this attraction thing all wrong. Instead of going out of his way to make sure Fiona wasn’t afraid of him, he should be making sure she absolutely, positively, without question disliked him.
Because really, what man could possibly be attracted to a hostile woman?
It certainly had worked on Mac when the fool had tried to steal Maddy from William. But after spending a single afternoon with Peeps, the drùidh had decided he sure as hell didn’t want to spend a lifetime with a woman who called him pond scum to his face.
Trace took another large bite of his sandwich and felt some of the cheese plop onto his chest. He frowned down at the clean shirt he’d spent twenty minutes hunting for this morning and tried wiping it off, only to end up smearing it into the material.
Well, Christ, he’d been out of the military only five months, and he’d already turned into a slob. Come to think of it, he hadn’t gotten his hair cut since he’d come home, and he bothered to shave only once a week, and then only because he went to his mom’s for Sunday supper—usually wearing clothes still damp from the dryer because he’d forget to throw in a load of wash the night before.
Giving up on the shirt, Trace stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth and used the towel to wipe the cheese off his face. He stopped in mid-wipe to crush the soft material into his nose and frowned. Apparently not all of his olfactory cells were dead, because he’d swear he could smellroses—just as he had the afternoon Fiona helped him bank the house.
Great. Wonderful. How friggin’ nice of her to spread her scent over all his stuff.
The porch door slammed open, and Trace dropped the towel when he heard footsteps running through the kitchen. “There’s a storm coming,” Fiona said, barging into the living room. She kicked the footrest closed on the recliner and
Blowing out a sigh that did nothing to quell his frustration, Trace picked up the sandwich and peeled back one of the slices of bread. And yup, that sure as hell looked like Eve Gregor’s award-winning goat cheese to him, slathered over all that meat.
What a terrible thing to do to perfectly good chicken.
He took a large bite and chewed without tasting, wondering how a person went about getting revenge on a walking disaster without overstepping the bounds of fair play. He didn’t want to actually scare the woman, much less crush her blossoming spirit; he just wanted to pay her back for organizing his tools and turning his home into a zoo, and for the skunks, for his being laid up, and for the goat’s milk.
But mostly, he wanted to make her stop making him want her.
Threatening to cut off all of Maddy’s hair had certainly served him well when his then-thirteen-year-old cousin had caught him screwing Leslie Simpson in the woods behind his house. But he’d dared to make such a threat only because he’d known that not only would Maddy have survived the injustice but the little Peeping Tom would have risen to the challenge. And then the brat would have one-upped him, just like she had last night by stealing his shoes, disabling his truck, and dressing him in Sesame Street pajamas.
Hell, maybe he would put the skunks in her SUV.
As for Fiona … well, old lady Peterson had been a schoolteacher, and Trace was pretty sure he’d seen one of those handheld antique school bells kicking around here somewhere—the ones teachers would ring to call kids in from recess that could be heard nearly all over town.
It could definitely be heard as far as his upstairs apartment.And seeing how it was his tenant’s fault that he was out of commission for a week, he should probably find that bell and ring it whenever he needed something.
Hell, maybe he’d been going about this attraction thing all wrong. Instead of going out of his way to make sure Fiona wasn’t afraid of him, he should be making sure she absolutely, positively, without question disliked him.
Because really, what man could possibly be attracted to a hostile woman?
It certainly had worked on Mac when the fool had tried to steal Maddy from William. But after spending a single afternoon with Peeps, the drùidh had decided he sure as hell didn’t want to spend a lifetime with a woman who called him pond scum to his face.
Trace took another large bite of his sandwich and felt some of the cheese plop onto his chest. He frowned down at the clean shirt he’d spent twenty minutes hunting for this morning and tried wiping it off, only to end up smearing it into the material.
Well, Christ, he’d been out of the military only five months, and he’d already turned into a slob. Come to think of it, he hadn’t gotten his hair cut since he’d come home, and he bothered to shave only once a week, and then only because he went to his mom’s for Sunday supper—usually wearing clothes still damp from the dryer because he’d forget to throw in a load of wash the night before.
Giving up on the shirt, Trace stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth and used the towel to wipe the cheese off his face. He stopped in mid-wipe to crush the soft material into his nose and frowned. Apparently not all of his olfactory cells were dead, because he’d swear he could smellroses—just as he had the afternoon Fiona helped him bank the house.
Great. Wonderful. How friggin’ nice of her to spread her scent over all his stuff.
The porch door slammed open, and Trace dropped the towel when he heard footsteps running through the kitchen. “There’s a storm coming,” Fiona said, barging into the living room. She kicked the footrest closed on the recliner and
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