And then, of course, the kilt.
Holy mother of God. It was made of a dark, thin leather, the jagged edges coming to a stop at mid-calf, a few inches above a pair of work boots.
Add to that the fact that he’d been bathed in ink, and I was a goner. Full sleeves. Stenciled hands. Archaic symbols cropping up one side of his neck.
But the pièce de résistance was a giant black and gray skull that spanned the entire length of his torso, its dark eyes almost as penetrating as the man’s olive-green ones. The same ones that shimmered beneath dark lashes as he studied me.
After an eternity of two distinct emotions battling for dominion—fear and utter, soul-crushing humiliation due to the vagina monologue—fear won out.
It usually did.
I grabbed a wedge of wood off the stove and jabbed it toward him. “Stay back! I have 9-1-1 on the phone.”
An easy grin lifted one corner of his mouth, the slow movement almost dropping me. “Discussing your special place?” he asked with a voice straight out of an aged bottle of bourbon.
My stomach flip-flopped, even though now was not the time for acrobatics. Now was the time for stealth. For wile and cunning. I had to prepare to fight him. Or run.
Probably run.
I blinked, my mind racing to come up with a plausible explanation as to why I would be talking to the cops about my vagina. A justification that would convince this heathen intruder I had 5-0 mere seconds away.
I stabbed him with my best glare and said, “Y—yes.”
That’d do it.
He’d be hightailing it out of here any moment now.
He continued to wipe his hands on the towel, his gaze never wavering from mine.
Any moment.
Instead, he spoke again. His voice disarmingly similar to the butterscotch whiskey my dads made the summer I turned twenty-one. Sweet and rich and so intoxicating I vomited for two days. I realized later they were using aversion therapy. It didn’t work.
He gestured toward my hand with a nod. “That’s not what you think it is.”
I frowned at him, not sure what he meant until he looked at the wedge of wood I’d been holding onto for dear life.
Realization dawned and I dropped it in horror before examining my hand like it had just been exposed to Ebola, careful to keep it away from the rest of me.
Where was my hazmat suit when I needed it?
I fought my gag reflex as I scanned the room in a frenzied panic, hoping to find a bottle of dish soap. Or bleach. Or battery acid.
“It’s still not what you think it is,” he said with a soft chuckle.
Oh, thank God. I calmed and dropped my hand. “Then what—?”
“Coffee?”
That was coffee? I looked at the briquette I just dropped. “I didn’t know coffee would do that.”
He turned to get a burnt umber T-shirt that lay atop a small breakfast table, and I got a good look at the tattoos on his shoulders and back. A large symbol rested on his spine, like something from an ancient language. It sat superimposed on a map I recognized immediately because I’d been studying the town at night when I’d stop to get what little sleep I could in my car. It was an early map of Salem, most likely drawn around the 1600s.
It was the symbol that called to me, however. Drew me closer, and I took an involuntary step toward him. Though I recognized it, its meaning lay hidden behind a thick curtain. Like a word that rested on the tip of my tongue and refused to fully form.
Unfortunately, he made quick work of donning the T-shirt. The hem settled softly around his kilt-clad hips, an inch above the swell of what promised to be a rock-hard ass. I came to the realization that I’d never been so attracted to a man in my life.
I dragged my gaze down to his left leg before I did something we’d both regret. Just above the boot, a scar snaked up from underneath the top, and I wondered what had happened to him.
When he took two cups down from a cabinet, I realized there was a coffee pot not ten feet away from me.
“Oh, right. Coffee.”
“Would you like a cup?”
Before I could answer, I heard a screeching sound coming from my phone and almost dropped it trying to get it back to my ear. “Sorry . . . officer. It’s okay. I thought there was an intruder.”
There was an intruder, but he’d offered me coffee, so we were practically besties.
“Intruder my ass,” Annette said. “He sounds hot. What does he look like?”
“I couldn’t possibly say at the moment, but thank you for your call.”
“Oh, come on. Give me a hint.”
“I’ll be sure to send in my donation to the Policemen’s None of Your Business Foundation.”
“Don’t you even think about hanging up on—”
I ended the call and turned back to Ginger Spice. Caffeine normally calmed me down. Ever since I got the call about the house, however, nothing seemed to work. I’d been running on all cylinders for three days.
“I would love some. My first three cups don’t seem to have done the trick, but before we exchange friendship bracelets . . .” I cleared my throat. “Who are you again?”
“Roane.” He turned back to me and held out his hand. “Roane Wildes. You must be Ms. Dayne.” His hand swallowed mine a split second before he went back to the task at hand. There was something about the way he said Ms. Dayne that sent goose bumps racing over my skin.
“How do you know that?”
He passed me a cup and gestured toward a carton of cream and a bowl of sugar that sat beside the pot, the bowl as aged and delicate as the house in which it resided. “Ruthie told me.”
“Mrs. Goode? You spoke to her?”
“Mrs. Goode?” he asked, as though confused. Then he corrected himself. “Of course. She told me you didn’t know. I spoke to her every chance I got. She was a captivating mixture of class and mystery. I’m sorry for your loss.”
I’d sat down and tore my gaze off him to look out into the massive wooded backyard. I didn’t want to come across as creepy. His words startled me. I glanced up at him. “I didn’t know her.”
He sat down, his face betraying the sadness he clearly felt at Mrs. Goode’s passing. “I helped her out when I could. Mostly just fixing this or that. I’m a journeyman. Though she knew pretty much everyone in town, she didn’t have anyone to help with the little things.”
“That’s very kind of you. You seem to have been close to her.”
“I was.”
“If she only passed a few days ago, why does the house look like it hasn’t been lived in for months?”
He dipped his head and took a slow sip. “She got sick. She didn’t have the energy to take care of Percival and mostly stayed in her room on the second floor.”
He called the house Percival, too. I guess that made it official.
“If I’d known sooner, I would’ve been here to help.” His face softened as he thought of her.
“Was she—? Were you related?”
“No. Just . . . friends.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. It happened so fast, I think I’m still processing.”
My heart ached for him. “Roane, do you know why she would leave me the house? I mean, I didn’t know her. Though, admittedly, I was adopted when I was three. I don’t remember anything before that. I do know my birth parents were from Arizona. Were we somehow related?”