Falling For A Redneck (2 page)

W
orking in her garden always provided a calming effect. Like a soothing song and all over body massage, gardening relaxed Marissa and allowed her a semblance of happiness—well, as happy as she seemed capable of.

Marissa
enjoyed the straight rows of plants, not a weed in sight; they wouldn’t dare! The garden was an organized beauty that she shaped and created. She had no problem admitting she possessed control issues. Who didn’t? Even the bugs that sent most women screaming added to her enjoyment. The fragile silken threads of a spider web with drops of dew clinging precariously, a natural masterpiece. The buzzing bees, her helpers for a healthy cross-pollination of her many perennial breeds. Wiggly worms, tunneling through the smooth, dark dirt, providing aeration to the roots below. Yes, happiness could always be found in her garden.

However
, right now she wasn’t a happy gardener. Not even close. Try pissed off. Holding on to her temper by a thread. Ready to rip her hair out and totally understanding the term ‘going postal’.

The beautiful
, quiet serenity of her garden, full of buzzing insects and singing birds with gentle rustling breezes, had been invaded by the most horrible of things. A nightmare of gigantic proportions. An unthinkable, noisy disaster worse than nails on chalkboard or the rat-tat-tat of sledgehammers.

Children.

Not in her garden—thank the good lord she didn’t believe in—but next door, where the vacant house had finally found new occupants—
unfortunately
.

Their loud, shrill voices were a rude cacophony on what should have been a relaxing Saturday afternoon. Each giggle and shriek made her wince, and she held back an urge to scream over the fence like a fishwife.
Shut up
, she projected mentally to no avail.

She needed a distraction. Humming a favorite Mozart symphony under her breath
—Symphony number 36 in C major—she tried to drown out the irritating sounds and sink back into her calm oasis.

“Over here,” yelled a high
-pitched voice, followed by a long scream. An unintelligible reply came back accompanied by—shudder—giggles. Then more shouting in an even higher-pitched tone, along with hysterical laughter.

Damn, there w
as more than one. Multiplying like little bunnies and noisier than crows at four in the morning.

Marissa leaned back on her haunches and sighed.
Why can’t people live by the adage that children should be seen not heard? Not a hard principle to follow, surely.

As Marissa prepared to stand up
, with the intention of voicing her thoughts—very loudly—on the subject of offensive, uncalled-for noises, aka giggling, a most unlikely sound emerged from her mouth instead.

“Ooomph!”

A large round object had come sailing over the fence through the air, hitting her square in the chest and knocking her flat on her back. As she lay stretched out in the grass—surely staining her neatly pressed clothes, and wheezing for air as the ball had hit her square in the diaphragm—she mentally prepared the speech, make that tirade, she’d deliver, once she learned to breathe again.

*

“Daddy, our ball went over the fence,” shouted Avery, his oldest, if you could call being five old.

“Ball,” declared his littlest guy, almost three-year-old Mason, pointing a chubby finger at the fence.

Both of his sons turned to face him with expectant looks. He knew the look, the one that said, ‘Daddy will fix it’. In the face of such cuteness and faith, how could he not come through?

“All right, guys, keep your pants on. Daddy will get your ball back.”

Dammit, he’d done it again. Why did parents always speak of themselves in the third person? He’d always sworn he’d never do it, yet now, whenever he spoke to his boys, he always referred to himself as Daddy—no longer an
I
, but some other person known only as Daddy.

Must be a brain disease that hits not long after the birth of children.
Also causes very unmanly speech like, “Does you little bum have a stinky?” or “Want some yum-yums?”
Other side effects included spit-up on anything clean, scribbles on any piece of paper of importance, sleeplessness, and oh, the best part, a great big warm, fuzzy, protective feeling inside.

H
e wasn’t too manly to admit it—in his head. He loved his kids—grubby fingers, chocolate-covered faces, disaster-causing angels. His angels. Who were still looking at him, somewhat impatiently now, as he stood beaming at them vacantly.
Oops, I’d better get moving.

Dirk walked over to the short fence, eyeing it. Only five feet high and made of boards. No barbed wire, electrical current or spikes—piece of cake. And no, he’d rather not explain his history with fences.

Bunching thick arm muscles, he gripped the top of the fence then swung his legs and upper body up and over, landing—
crunch
—in someone’s well-tended garden.

Oops.
 

Lifting one large black boot, he winced at the crushed greenery beneath it. He should have probably looked before he’d hopped.
Or maybe I should have used the gate,
said his newly found conscience.

Shut up
, he snarled back. This whole being respectable thing was still kind of new. All these rules over proper behavior and such were so annoying, but glancing back at his boys watching with wide eyes, he couldn’t deny the necessity.

Dirk
needed to make sure his boys didn’t follow the same paths he had. Which meant no more fence hopping. Next time he’d go around, knock, and ask to get the ball, even if it took longer. Next time. Right now, with the damage already done, he might as well just grab the ball and apologize later.

Or he could start apologizing now.

A wince tugged at his lips as he saw a wheezing woman sit up on the grass, the children’s large ball clutched in her perfectly manicured hands. But it was the scowl that eloquently relayed how she ended up in that position.

“Yours
, I presume?” said the very pissed-off lady, acidly. She arched a neatly groomed, dark brow at him. “You know, most people would knock and ask permission to have their flying projectiles returned instead of trespassing and destroying private property.”

Heat rose in his cheeks as embarrassment gripped him.
Talk about a flashback to grade three and that awful teacher Mrs. Johnson. She’d also known how to make him feel two inches tall without ever raising her voice. Still, he was a grown man now.

W
hat the hell? Since when do I blush?
Perhaps because she had a point, a point he’d pondered not even seconds ago. Sheepish at having gotten caught, he jumped out of her garden onto the perfect lawn before clearing his throat. Still embarrassed, but determined to redeem himself, he shot the lady a smile. A killer one of course, dimpled and all. “Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. Not used to having neighbors, I guess. I promise, no more fence hopping in the future.”

“That would be wise, although perhaps it would be even better if you had your
children
”—she pronounced the word with distaste—“keep their toys on your side of the property line. I did not purchase this house so that it could be turned into a public playground.”

Whoa.
What’s with the attitude? Who the hell shoved the stick up this lady’s ass? Make that two sticks. Someone call a doctor!
His smile faltered a little. “Hey, kids will be kids. I’ll try and make sure they keep the ball on our side of the fence.”
And warn them about the bitch—er, witch—next door.

Seeing her struggle to stand while still holding the ball, he held out a hand to help her up, but quickly withdrew it at the arctic glare she threw at him
, which went well with her tight-lipped, pinched countenance.
Suck on many lemons lately?
said his not-easily-quelled inner voice.

Pity she
possessed such a foul character, though, he thought as he appraised her very properly attired body. Who wore a cream-colored blouse and pleated linen slacks to garden? Her face might not fall under the definition of cute—too bitchy for that—but her features were certainly striking. Angular cheekbones a model would kill for, a straight nose and slightly slanted dark eyes framed by jet-black hair that just brushed her shoulders. Hard to tell what her lips looked like, though, as they were drawn so tight with disapproval.

Another thing for a model to gnash her teeth at was this woman’s height. Tall, almost as tall as his own six-foot-one, with a slim, very leggy frame—leggy enough for her legs to wrap twice around a man, that was, if you could find a man brave enough to try and get past her prickly exterior.

Wonder how her husband puts up with her
.

Judging by the slight swell in her blouse, she lacked cushion in the chest area, but then again
, more than a handful was a waste anyway. Her waist indented nicely, small enough, he’d even dare say, for a man to span with his hands. Not that he’d planned to lay hands on the ice princess. She’d probably make him wash them first.

“Here
.” She thrust the ball at him, jolting him from his frank perusal. She unfortunately also disturbed his interesting thoughts on ways to melt an ice princess and remove a stick all at once.

“The gate is that way,” she said
, pointing up the side of her house with a perfectly manicured finger.

Wanna bet her toes are perfect too?
“Listen,” he said, trying to salvage this disastrous first meeting with his new neighbor. He gave her his most charming smile—the one that always got him laid. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over? My name is Dirk, and I’m your new neighbor. I just moved here with my two boys. I’m a mechanic and part owner of the garage...”

She arched a brow at him, a trademark of hers apparently
, and uttered, if it was possible, a ladylike snort.

“I’m sorry, did I give you the impression I cared who you are or what you do? I like my peace and quiet. I have no interest in being your friend or getting to know you and your progeny. Please latch the gate when you leave.” And with that
, she turned away from him, somehow resisting his killer smile. Off she marched with a stiff spine, giving him the view of her surprisingly shapely ass wiggling as she stalked into her house through some sparkly clean patio doors.

What a bitch
, Dirk thought, as he carried the ball under one arm and went through her side gate, latching it shut with more force than needed. Just his luck, he’d moved in next door to the neighborhood pain in the ass. He’d have to warn the boys to stay away. The ice princess didn’t seem to have a maternal bone in her body. Hell, she didn’t even seem familiar with the concept of politeness or civility.

Of course, he might share a little bit of fault, him and the boys, accosting her like they had. Not exactly a great way to make a first impression.

So how to make amends?
Maybe a blowtorch to thaw her? A good shag to remind her she’s a woman? Offer to find the stick that seems to be making her so uptight?

Funny as those thoughts were, he decided a replacement plant for the one he’d destroyed would probably
work as a better apology. It was what a respectable member of society would do, or at least he thought so. He’d have to check his book on manners.

Marissa stalked into her bathroom, still fuming over her meeting with the redneck next door. She stripped out of her grass-streaked pants with a very unladylike curse and sprayed the ass of them with a stain remover. She also took off her blouse. The ball had hit it dead center, so she was probably covered in kid germs.
Better safe than sick
. She stuffed all of it in her laundry hamper before she sauntered in bra and panties into her white-on-white bedroom so she could change into something clean.

The nerve of that man!
Vaulting that big, muscled body of his over the fence like some action-movie hero and trampling her poor Aspen poppy with his big black boots. Dirty hillbilly, with his grease-stained T-shirt hugging a thick barrel chest, straining at the seams over bulging barbell arms. Not to mention tight, holey jeans almost splitting apart over his thick muscled thighs.

Apparently
, the concept of using a clothes washer on a regular basis and putting rags where they belonged, in the garbage, never occurred to him. A big dirty redneck all in all, but, oddly enough, dirty as his clothes were, he’d sported a clean-shaven head, and his goatee was neatly trimmed to frame his rugged face. A vain redneck? Did such a thing exist?

If I were inclined to that type of man, you could even say he was handsome in a rough, bad-boy biker kind of way. And you could just tell by the naughty grin he subjected me to that he’d make a powerful lover, the type who does things fast, hard, and sweaty.

Shudder
. If she ever took a lover again, she’d select someone slender like her. Someone with a professional look who was very, very clean and obedient. No way would she ever get involved with an aggressive, overly sexed man. Not again. Not ever.

Marissa needed to feel in control. Her misery with her first husband had taught her that lesson. What she wouldn’t give for five minutes in a room with her ex to show him what she’d learned since she discovered her dominant side. The idea of him on his knees, begging, almost made her swoon in pleasure.

Hold on. Why the hell am I thinking about sex and men anyway? Surely I am not so starved for male attention that the redneck next door actually managed to wake my fossilized libido?

Oddly enough, though, and to her vast annoyance, for the first time in a long—very long—time, Marissa could feel her blood flowing. Awareness of her body flashed through her, and her nipples tightened into hard little nubs. She even felt a coiling warmth at the apex of her thighs as she remembered his rude appraisal of her body. Looking at her like a possible piece of ass, one he mentally undressed and did...

Ewww
! Time to stop her mind from slumming. Rushing out of her bedroom, Marissa grabbed a bottle of Fantastic and proceeded to clean like a madwoman on a mission, scrubbing her already sparkling kitchen, as if cleaning would erase the smut inside her mind.

Three hours and two bottles of Fantastic later, she finally managed to regain her equilibrium. Barely.

With her house beyond perfectly spotless, she decided to tackle dinner.

A passion for cooking—the only kind of passion she now allowed—had overtaken her several years ago, and she’d embraced it fervently, to the point she’d even taken classes and invested more than she could afford on cookware. Almost as relaxing as gardening, it again gave her a sense of control, not to mention delicious food.

Who says single people can’t cook gourmet feasts for themselves?

The taste
-bud-tingling scent of frying onions with crushed garlic filled the kitchen. Her chicken, perfectly cubed, lay on the cutting board beside the pan, waiting its turn. Everything was perfectly cut, prepped, and ready to go. Chef Ramsay wouldn’t find any slacking donkeys to lambast in her kitchen.

She eyed the onions, stirring them gently to
coat them in the sizzling butter, debating if she should add the mushrooms yet, or hold off. Caramelized or just lightly sautéed? What was she in the mood for?

Marissa
’s mouth watered at the thought of the stir-fry that would emerge from the combination of all these raw and fresh ingredients. Apart from the onions and chicken, she also had thinly sliced mushrooms, finely chopped cilantro, and angel hair pasta waiting to be dropped in the pot of hot water for a flash cook.

The doorbell rang.

Shoot.
Eying her frying pan, the onions almost translucent and ready for removal for the next stage of cooking, she decided to ignore whoever dared interrupt this most delicate of processes.

Knock, knock,
knock.

The impatient sound grated on her nerves.
Persistent little bugger.

Sighing, she debated pulling off the pan but decided not to ruin her dinner. She’d quickly get rid of the idiot at the door, hopefully before the onions turned black.

Gliding to the door in her bare feet
—she’d learned a while ago heels did not belong in the kitchen,
June Cleaver I am not
—she wiped her hands on her white apron, her concession to the paragon of the kitchen, before opening the door to blast whoever had the nerve to disturb her.

However
, the words never came out because, as soon as she opened the door, a gaudy plastic pot, replete with an overflowing plant, ended up thrust into her arms.

“What the
hell!” she exclaimed. Despite her surprise and the odd armful, she still caught a glimpse of a big body and a bald head.
Great, the redneck has returned.

“It’s a plant,” he said in his rumbly growl of a voice
.

For some reason
, her tummy started doing flip-flops again. Had to be hunger. No way was her body happy to see him. As for his stupid remark?
Duh…
“I see that it’s a plant. What is it doing here?” She eyed the leafy green plant in her arms dubiously.

“It’s for your garden. You know, to replace the one I accidentally trampled.”

“I see.” She didn’t. After all, could you call leaping over a fence and squashing her beautiful and delicate Aspen poppy with oversized black boots accidental? And besides, much as she’d grumbled, her plant would survive the trauma. It might take a few weeks, but it would recover. Surely he hadn’t felt guilty enough to replace it with—she peered closer at the plant—a marigold. And an orange bloomed one at that.
How common.

“See, I felt really bad about how we met today and
all, and I could see you really love your garden, so I thought I’d get you this plant to make things up to you.” And then he smiled at her, a big masculine grin replete with a mischievous dimple and a twinkle in his eye.

If she were the type of woman who found that attractive, she might have melted, but she’d seen his type before. Unabashed flirt, who thought a sexy
smile would solve everything. Then the next thing you knew they were cheating on you with their secretary and packing a suitcase. Knowing this didn’t stop the fluttering in her tummy, though, or help the dryness in her mouth. She blamed her irrational reaction on hunger.

“You shouldn’t have,” she said, and she meant it. Like she’d plant something as vulgar as a marigold in her beautiful perennial garden.

“How could I resist a pretty flower for a pretty lady?” he drawled, and to top off his corny remark, he winked.

Oh, he has to be kidding. First he invades my garden, now he has the nerve to flirt—and not very well at that.
She’d set him straight on that score. “Sorry, but I’m not interested.”

“Not interested? In the plant?” he replied, a note of puzzlement crept in his voice.

Ha, trying to play stupid.
“In you,” she said icily, placing the plant on the side table in her front hall before bracing her hands on her hips.

A choking sound came from the depths of his massive chest, which turned into a guffawing laugh. “You thought I was flirting with you?” Dirk howled louder.

“I fail to see the humor.” People often accused her of lacking a sense of humor. Not her fault she found their trite attempts at comedy laughable.

“Honey,” he managed to gasp in between chuckles, “I don’t flirt, I take. But don’t worry, you’re safe. I have a rule that says to not waste my time with stuck-up ice princesses.”

“Ice princess!” Marissa practically screeched in outrage.
How dare he judge me?
“I’ll have you know I can be very passionate with the right man, but you are so very definitely not that type of man.” No, she liked hers well groomed and gentlemanly, not big, burly—
and manly,
her subconscious taunted.

“Babe, if I decided to seduce you, I guarantee you wouldn’t say no.” He said it with smug assurance, as if there was no doubt in his mind she’d just melt like butter if he gave her some attention.

Marissa gaped at him, sure she’d misunderstood. But no, looking at his serious face, she realized he meant it. And maybe that was the case with most of the floozies he used his wiles on, but not her. Contrary to what her body seemed to think, she would never fall victim to the seductive wiles of a man like him. She laughed in his face. “You are so full of yourself. You think you’re God’s gift to women, do you, with your big muscles and rugged face? Well, prepare yourself for a shocker, redneck. I don’t find you attractive at all, and I would most definitely say no.”

Too late
, Marissa realized she’d in essence thrown down the gauntlet and only had a moment to brace herself before he invaded her personal space. The proper response at his sudden move should have involved her backing up and maybe slapping him. She should do something. Instead, like a deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights, she just gaped at him as he grabbed her with his strong hands and angled himself to kiss her.

The chance to protest passed as his lips touched hers. Firm lips that slid across hers and caressed with a gentleness she would never have believed him capable of by looks alone. To her shame, she felt an answering warmth in her body to his manly claim, a melting in her loins that had her leaning into his body and responding to his kiss with nibbles of her own.

What the hell had come over her? She wanted to pull away, but
enthralled, and, yes, aroused dammit, her lips clung to his.

The hands that had so forcefully grabbed her relaxed their grip on her arms and slid down her body to cup her buttocks.
What big hands he has
. He held her ass in his palms with ease. He squeezed her cheeks and used them to draw her even closer. Hot, tingling awareness shot through her, and moisture dampened her sex. She pressed closer to him and tilted her head back, giving him more access. Her mouth opened wide to allow entrance to his tongue, a slippery caress that made her legs tremble.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Alarms were going off in Marissa’s head, confusing her.
Shouldn’t it be fireworks?

She pulled back, the loss of his warm mouth leaving her lips feeling cool, and lonely. The strident ringing brought her back to her senses—and dragged shame along with it. She wiped her hand across her mouth to try and erase the taste of his lips.
How did that happen?

An acrid burning stench tickled her nose, and the strident beeping continued. Her eyes widened in horror.
My dinner!

“Goddammit! You made me burn my dinner!” Marissa shoved at Dirk before she spun on her heel and dashed off into her kitchen. But she needn’t have bothered to hurry. The glaring sound of her smoke alarm testified to the blackness of the contents of her frying pan. Forget salvage. There was only one thing she could do.

She dumped the smoking mess in her sink and fumed.
Stupid jerk
.
A beautiful dinner wasted, and it is all his fault. Him and his hot kisses and sexy…

Argh! Where did I put that bottle of Fantastic?

*

Bemused, Dirk stood in the doorway, the insistent scream of the smoke alarm almost fitting. Who would have thought he lived next to an ice princess with a volcanic core?
It wasn’t just her dinner that was on fire!
His lips and throbbing erection could testify to that.

When she’d just about dared him to kiss her, he’d meant to do so as a lesson but
, instead, found himself with a raging hard-on and an urge to tumble her on that front stoop. The passion she hid behind that cool, proper façade was a definite surprise. And he wasn’t the only one who got a shock!

He grinned at the smell of burnt onion. A sign the ice princess had lost herself in the moment.
Turns out the wicked witch is human after all!

Brimming with male satisfaction, Dirk had to restrain an urge to thump his chest. He’d quite enjoyed making her lose control, but the one thing that disturbed him was he hadn’t been far behind her.

How the hell had that happened? He never lost control with a woman. Ever. Something about her, though, drew him even with her bitchy exterior. If it hadn’t been for the smoke alarm, just how far would things have gone?

One thing was certain: the ice princess definitely turned his crank. Not a big deal. After all, it wasn’t like he was in love with her or something. But he definitely wanted another taste—or two. Outwardly, she might appear cool and composed but inside hid a smoldering fire that he itched to coax to life so he could bathe in its flames.