Chapter 3
BEING BRALESS WAS as close to rebellious as Tatum had been in almost a decade. So was reading her third romance novel in a row, barely emerging from the nest of quilts she’d dragged to the comfy rocking chair in front of the now-dying fire. No makeup, no expectations, no worries. Day one of her new life was good.
When she was done reading, she could dig through her suitcase for her vibrator and some quality alone time. Or she could stay up reading all night long.
For the first time in her life, there was no one to stop her from doing whatever she wanted. And knowing that was...awesome.
She glanced at the old cuckoo clock over the mantel. Right now her ex-husband, Brent, and the new Mrs. Cahill, Kendra, were probably sipping umbrella drinks on some beach somewhere—if he’d actually taken a vacation. But knowing Kendra, she wouldn’t have given him a choice.
She burrowed into her quilts and added the book she’d finished to the pile at her feet. Her evening would be far more satisfying than a night with Brent and his tiny penis. Penis size aside, he had no stamina and had never taken an active interest in giving her pleasure. Tatum had always waited for him to head to the shower before finishing things off right with her handy-dandy purple-swirly love machine. She called him Chris, after her favorite movie actor. Brent and Chris had never met. Brent had no idea Chris existed.
She drained hot chocolate from her large Santa mug and stood, padding across the wooden floor in her socks and slippers to restart the Nat King Cole album. Maybe it was wrong that she was in such a good mood, newly divorced and absolutely alone on Christmas. But she was. She wanted to be happy. And right now, Nat King Cole, stimulating romance novels and copious amounts of hot chocolate were all she needed to be happy. And, maybe later, Chris.
She picked up the last book on the side table, reading the back blurb and its tantalizing promise of “eroticism on every page” with a sigh. But a slight movement from out the large picture window caught her eye. She froze, a prick of fear running down her spine.
A man stood on her front porch railing. A big man. So tall she couldn’t see his head or shoulders as he reached for something on the roof.
She edged closer to the fireplace and the brass poker resting against the wall. She might be alone, but she wasn’t helpless. She gripped the poker and made her way closer to the window.
But the man wasn’t armed with a weapon. He had a large coil of Christmas lights hanging around his shoulder. Christmas lights. She didn’t drop the poker, but her swing-first-question-second instinct wavered. Something about a man hanging Christmas lights brought the threat level down.
She lowered her weapon, watching as the man moved along the porch railing with ease, threading the heavy strand of lights on unseen hooks. He was fast. But why was he there, working so hard to decorate her house? He must run one of those decorating services. Maybe he was at the wrong house? She should stop him before he got too far.
She wrapped a throw around her shoulders and pushed through the front door, still holding her poker. A blast of cold air cut through her sweats and the thermal underwear beneath. Shit, shit and double shit. She’d forgotten how frigid North Texas could get. She hurried across the porch, but stopped a few feet from the man on the railing.
His leather jacket rode up as he worked. And his stomach... She swallowed. What a view. He stretched, exposing more actual man flesh than she’d seen in oh so long. And it was amazing. The kind of amazing even the best romance novels would have a hard time capturing.
Cut. Hard. All man. Every cleft and ridge of his six-pack was on display. His jeans hung low enough to reveal the edge of his hips. Just looking at him made her light-headed. Stunned. Excited. Achy.
Something deep inside her turned molten and fluid.
Her fingers twisted in the throw around her shoulders as her gaze followed the impressively dark happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. What sort of surprises would be found underneath the skintight, faded jeans that clung to this man’s hips? She swallowed, her imagination offering up all sorts of possibilities. She was oh so tempted to touch that stomach.
Which was wrong. And completely unexpected. She’d never ever do something so irrational but...
But all that muscle and strength, the dark lines of a tattoo peeking wickedly from under the edge of his shirt, had her utterly captivated. What would it be like to touch a man like this? Better yet, what would it be like to have him touch her? A shiver racked her body. Brent had very specific preferences in bed—namely her lying still beneath him, quiet, aching for something more. Wanting something...more. More...like this.
She pressed her hand against her stomach and the delicious flare of liquid heat that coiled inside her. Maybe all that reading was getting to her.
This man wasn’t supposed to be here; he might even get in trouble for being here if he was hired to holiday-fy another house. She stepped closer, surprised to hear him humming a Christmas carol. The sound
