Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) by Jodi Watters

village idiot. Glancing pointedly at her car, he added, “Wanna tell me why you’ve been parking there in the middle of the night? If you’re stalking me, you’re doing a shitty fucking job of it.”
    Mirroring his stance, she leaned against the opposite railing and sipped the hot coffee, a blend of buttery hazelnut and sweet vanilla that warmed her insides. Jesus, not only was he kickass in the sack, he made a fantastic cup of coffee. Much to her dismay, his ranking on her Fantasy Man Meter inched higher. There had to be something he was bad at. Some annoying habit that could drive a person mad. Maybe he left bread crumbs in the butter or whistled through his nose when he breathed. Maybe he drove under the speed limit or sprayed the neighborhood cats with a hose.
    Studying him, she tried to spot a flaw. Besides his personality that was, because Lord knew, the man could use a few pointers in the communication department, pillow talk included.
    His jean-clad legs were spread straight out in front of him, his ankles crossed in a deceptively relaxed pose, and for the first time, she noticed his feet were bare. His shirt was a long sleeved, black Henley, the thermal kind with a waffle texture that inspired a compulsion to run your hands across it. She knew from experience it hid a spectacular chest.
    Wait, what did he say? He thought she was stalking him? “You think I’m stalking you?”
    He did that brow thing again. “I wanna know how you found me.”
    She wrinkled her nose skeptically. “First of all, you must think pretty highly of yourself.” Because he didn’t need to know just how rocked her world had truly been that night. “And second, and this is important, so listen up,” she said with emphasis, leaning forward so he didn’t misunderstand her. “You never told me your name.”
    The reminder made her feel cheap and she sat back casually, as if he’d merely been a blip on her radar, taking a burning sip of the hazelnut coffee. The fact that he’d poured it for her did little to soothe her bruised pride.
    Rubbing the back of his neck, he ran a hand through his tousled hair and set his mug down, looking out toward the empty street. “It’s Smith. Beckett Smith.”
    Hope barked out a laugh. “God, that sounds pretentious. Unique, yet anonymous. Like it should be said with a British accent and a raised pinky while drinking Earl Gray tea.”
    He snorted. “My mother would love that. And technically it has ‘the third’ after it.” He made air quotes. “I was born eight minutes before my brother, so he got the normal name. Unlucky is the word I always think of, but pretentious works, too.” He eyed her again. “I told you mine, now you tell me yours. Hope what?”
    “Holy shit, there’s two of you?” She digested that information, wondering how anyone could stand that much... Beckett... at one time. The female applause must be deafening. Looking toward his front door, she whispered, “Is he in there? Can I see him?” Oh, the hotness.
    He laughed without humor. “No and no. Now why the hell are you sleeping in your car, Hope with no last name who’s not stalking me?”
    Taking another gulp of coffee, she wished for one of Bridget’s handy, anxiety killing blackberry brandy shots.
    “I like your tree,” she said. Because in her mind, it was just that simple.
    Meeting his gaze, she collected her thoughts, knowing he wanted a better explanation. “I’m in between apartments right now and sometimes I need a place to stay. If my best friend’s couch is occupied for the night or he’s got a case of the ass and won’t let me camp out on the floor, then I’m left with my car.” Shrugging, she looked away from his searching eyes, the stilted confession more embarrassing than showing perverted strangers her plumped up cleavage.
    Purple jacaranda petals littered the hood of her car, the weight of the rare rain too heavy for the delicate blooms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him follow her