Gentry stopped slamming the ax into a wooden log, rested his hand on his hip, and leaned the handle onto the chopping block. His chest heaved with the exertion, his cheeks were slightly flushed under his facial scruff, and his breath chugged like fog in front of his face. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business.”
“Uuuh, it is my business, remember? I said it wasn’t a safe time in this town—”
Blaire held her hand up and cut him off. “Save your protective bullcrappery, Gentry. I don’t need a controlling man in my life. You want to protect someone from imaginary monsters? Go protect your girlfriend!”
Was it mature to shout that last word, escape into her car, and slam the door? Nope, but it sure felt good to watch his face go slack.
She waved toodle-loo and then skidded to the exit of the parking lot like she was a stunt driver in a movie. At the stop sign, her tires spun out for a few seconds before they caught, but as soon as she got traction, she cast him a fiery glare and pulled out of Hunter Cove.
What was she up to this fine, blustery, gray-skied, frigid Maine day? Grocery shopping. She needed zero macaronis from Gentry Striker, and yes, that was a metaphor for his dick, too. Even if his dick was like…the biggest macaroni. A world record macaroni. Stop thinking about how big it is.
Blaire was an independent woman who didn’t need a protector and sure didn’t need anything from the man watching her leave.
Project avoid-the-heck-out-of-Gentry-for-the-rest-of-the-week started right now, because Blaire didn’t need a hero.
She could take care of herself just fine.
Chapter Seven
How did one even cook an artichoke? Blaire spun the spikey thing in her hands. She would have to research. Or perhaps get mega-lazy and buy canned artichokes for the pasta she planned on making tonight.
She was an acquisitions editor for a big publisher, so she had a stack of manuscripts to read, a load of time on her hands, and a craving for carbs like she hadn’t felt in months. Her appetite had been crap back home while stressing about work and Matt, but out here, she wanted to enjoy cooking and eating again.
This was going to be way better than the TV dinners she ate at the kitchen counter every night while staring pathetically at the two-person table she and Matt used to eat all their meals at together.
Tables were for families and couples. She’d held onto that old table so hard, but now she was considering selling it and replacing it with something that she picked out, not bought at a garage sale with her ex. Too many memories attached to it. Actually, there were too many memories attached to everything in that house.
Maybe it was finally time to sell it and rent something. A place she could build brand new memories away from Matt.
He’d moved on. It was way past time she did the same.
Relief and sadness welled up inside of her as she settled the artichoke in her cart and rolled it toward the pasta aisle.
She smiled at a couple as she passed, but they only frowned back at her, and the man snarled up his lip like a wild dog. Rude. The people in this store were either friendly or gave her looks like she was a leper. Now she was afraid to give anyone eye contact because the entire grocery store was apparently a mixed bag of nuts.
Gentry fit right in around here.
Blaire gritted her teeth hard to punish herself. She’d sworn not to think of Cheater-McGee while she was out and about running errands, but her mind kept circling back around like a little glutton for punishment.
Bowtie pasta or fettuccine? She scrolled through the recipe on her phone. She could do either. Blaire held up a bag of each and played eeny-meeny-miny-mo.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
The voice right by her ear startled her so hard she dropped the bowties on the floor and yelped.
She spun, and there was the man of her imaginings himself, now dressed in a green, threadbare V-neck sweater and sex-appeal. Her hormones were fangirling, and it made her even angrier.
“Fiancé then,” she said sarcastically as she bent to pick up the pasta.
Only he bent over at the same time and reached for it, knocking into her shoulder. She went toppling backward. His strong arms gripped her wrists in a blur and settled her upright again so fast it stole her breath away.
He still held her wrists and was standing too close. He smelled like that body spray and mint, as if he’d just brushed his teeth, and this was the first time in her life she’d ever been jealous of a toothbrush. She hated everything. Blaire wrenched her wrists away from him and crossed her arms.
Gentry’s eyebrow cocked up, and his lips curved slightly with a smile. “You’re really cute when you’re mad.”
“I’m not cute. I’m a tornado. I’m an avalanche of fury.”
Gentry pursed his lips, but he was doing a pretty crappy job of hiding his smile.
“Jerk,” she muttered, tossing the fettuccini into her cart and motoring away from him. Only Daddy Longlegs could apparently speed walk and caught up with her in three strides. Obnoxious.
“Stalking is illegal, you know,” she blurted out pertly.
“But you’re so fun to stalk, Trouble. Jailtime would be worth it.”
“Have you been arrested often?” she asked, lifting her chin and taking a left toward the wall of freezers. She was definitely loading up on pizza rolls.
“Have you?”
She tossed him an angry glare. “Of course not, I’m a good girl.”
“I don’t have a fiancé,” he said low. I don’t have a girl at all. I don’t really know why you thought that. If I had someone who was mine, I wouldn’t have been all over you last night. That’s not me. It’s not really possible for someone like me to…you know…”