“You find inspiration on the shore?”
“The voice of the sea speaks to the soul,” she said, trying not to be obvious about checking out his flexing biceps as he dried his face and she filled the coffee carafe in the sink. “Chopin said that.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “The wildly talented nineteenth-century Polish composer and pianist.”
“Yes, I know who Chopin is. I might be a metal guitarist, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect the classics.”
A metal guitarist? She and Kellen were about as far apart on the musical spectrum as possible. There was no way in hell he’d be able to help her with her writer’s block. She wrote classical compositions, not wailing noise. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m a huge fan. Of Chopin’s. His nocturnes.” She shuddered in bliss at the thought of his stirring piano pieces.
Kellen chuckled. “So you’re not impressed by my fiddling with guitar strings, I take it?”
“I’m sure I’d be very impressed, but I do sort of have a thing for the piano.”
Once Dawn had the coffee percolating, she turned toward Kellen. He looked incredibly uncomfortable in those sopping wet jeans.
“You should get out of those clothes,” she said.
A crooked grin graced his handsome features. “Are you coming on to me, Miss O’Reilly? It is Miss O’Reilly, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s Miss O’Reilly, but no, I wasn’t coming on to you.” Though she probably should have been. “You just look wet. I can find you something to wear.”
His gaze settled on the flowing white skirt of her loose dress, and he chuckled. “I suppose the jokes I make about wearing skirts have finally caught up with me.”
“You wear skirts?” It went against the laws of nature for a man as unquestionably virile as Kellen Jamison to wear a skirt. A kilt was an entirely different matter, of course. She could see him in a kilt. She had Scottish blood in her heritage but Kellen appeared to be of Native American ancestry, and she’d much rather see him in a pair of buckskin breeches. Or skintight leather. Leather would work.
“Not really. It’s a lame joke I share with one of my bandmates when we’re on stage.”
“Owen?”
His jaw dropped. “How did you know?”
“It’s the only name you’ve mentioned.”
“Right.”
“I have some boxer shorts you can borrow.” She couldn’t take her eyes off his wet jeans. His crotch specifically. What was wrong with her? She was offending herself with her lewd behavior. Maybe getting him out of those wet clothes would get her mind out of his pants.
“Are they yours?”
She nodded, still staring south. “I usually sleep in them.”
“You wear men’s underwear and you criticize me for wearing skirts?”
She glanced up to meet his eyes. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, there is a bit of a double standard in this country.”
“And sometimes there’s a good reason for that. I’d look like a complete tool in a skirt, but you’d look sexy in men’s clothes. A pair of boxers and nothing else.” His gaze rested on her chest, and she resisted the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. “Or in a man’s long-sleeve dress shirt and… nothing else.” His stare shifted to her legs, which were complete covered by her maxi skirt, but felt hopelessly bare. And suddenly hot. Why were her legs hot? Feeling foolish, she fanned them with her skirt.
“Are you picturing me naked?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Only half-naked.”
She nibbled on her lip and allowed herself to gawk at him without pretending she wasn’t. “I don’t have to picture you half-naked. You already are.”
“Sorry to spoil your fun.” His gaze flicked up to meet hers, and her breath caught. “You could always picture the other half of me naked.”
She grinned, her gaze dropping to his jeans. “I already am.” It felt good to flirt. She’d had little time for men recently but looming deadline or not, she was willing to make a little time for this one.
Kellen cleared his throat and stared at the floor. “I will take you up on those boxers,” he said. “I’m a bit chilled and dealing with some shrinkage issues down below. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your imagination.”
“My imagination is definitely not disappointed.” If he lost those jeans, she was certain her reality wouldn’t be disappointed either.
She fanned her face with one hand. Damn, what was wrong with the air conditioning in this house?
“I’ll be right back,” she said and dashed upstairs to the master bedroom to find him a pair of shorts. She riffled through a drawer and took out the manliest-looking pair of plaid boxers she owned—she did have an unusual fondness for plaid—and returned to the kitchen to find Kellen gazing into space. His knockout smile had vanished, replaced with a forlorn daze. He was fiddling with something in the front pocket of his jeans, and she was pretty sure he wasn’t trying to remedy his shrinkage issues.
“I hope they fit,” she said. Actually, she hoped they were skintight and aided her imagination.
He jerked his head and settled his gaze on her. His smile returned.
“Thanks,” he said, accepting the thin pair of shorts she held in his direction.
“There are towels in the cabinet over the toilet,” she said and nodded toward the half bathroom next to the stairs.
“Thanks,” he said again and hurried to the bathroom. Her appreciative gaze settled on his muscular back as he walked away. She did have a thing for a sexy male back and they didn’t get much sexier than Kellen’s. Would he let her caress the lines of that tattoo? Maybe he would if she found the courage to make a move on him instead of staring after him as he disappeared into the bathroom.
That was a big if.
“You’re too much of a chicken to make the first move,” she chastised herself under her breath. But she hoped he wasn’t.
Chapter Three
Kellen entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. What the fuck was he doing flirting with a woman he’d just met, promising his libido something he had no intension of delivering? He’d let his guard down with this one. He couldn’t let it happen again.
He caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink and winced. Lord, no wonder Dawn had thought he was up to no good when she’d seen him on the beach. He looked like some pirate who jumped ship and swam ashore to avoid punishment for stealing the booty.
He had no plans to take any booty tonight, even if Dawn placed hers directly into his hands. And if he kept coming on to her the way he had been since she invited him into the house, he was pretty sure she would be prepared to do exactly that.
He struggled out of his wet jeans, leaving another puddle on Dawn’s floor, and found a towel to dry his hair, legs, and the rest of his body, taking note of a certain stiffness he was not prepared to deal with. Apparently he’d been lying about his shrinkage issue. How was he going to pull off a pair of thin boxer shorts with a semi?
He tugged the boxers up his thighs and hips, then peered down at his crotch and groaned at the spectacle he was making of himself.
“Down, boy,” he said and tucked his far too sensitive cock down the leg of the shorts. “I know she’s hot, but you can’t have her.”
He pressed on the obvious bulge in his shorts. Her shorts, he reminded himself. Did she wear panties under them or had these recently been against her bare flesh? What did the hidden treasure between her thighs smell like? Taste like? His mouth watered, and he swallowed before giving himself a mental shake.
Snap out of it, stupid.