My Mistake (Stories of Serendipity #7)

Anne Conley
Text copyright © 2014 Anne Conley

License Notes

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Vanessa Booke

Edited by:

Jessica Ramirez at 
Short Side of Tall Editing

Neighborly Complications
Dream On
Chef's Delight
Hot Mess
Falling for Him
Gambling on Love
My Mistake

A
huge thank you goes to all of the beta readers who helped with this, as well as NJ Frost and Suellen May. You guys have no idea how helpful your suggestions and input are. Integral part of the process. Integral.

T
his book is dedicated to my brother. Even though you don’t read my books, (and I get why, no big deal) your support and encouragement has been one of the best parts of this whole endeavor. I love you, and I know you don’t realize just how much, but you’re a huge part of my world and I don’t know what I would do without you in it.

E
yes collide as sweat-soaked skin slides together. Hot gasps tear the air to shreds. Fingernails grip backs, buttocks, nipples. Flesh held captive by lace and satin is suddenly freed. Teeth graze flesh and toes curl. The scent of candle wax and body oils are no match for the lust and desire in the air. Souls collide in a mesh of desires, if only for a brief period in time.

These were the types of thoughts that travelled through Casey’s mind every time she looked at the man down the street, working on the roof of Mr. Jackson’s house. Of course, he didn’t realize she’d been undressing him all week long, as she sipped cold beer on her porch. But it was okay. It wasn’t like anything was going to ever happen in her lifetime.

She sighed as today, for the fourth day in a row, she watched him climb the ladder, a package of shingles slung over his shoulder like a rag doll. His tan muscular shoulders, completely visible through his sweat-soaked T-shirt, flexed and bunched with the movement.

Licking her lips, Casey took another sip of her beer, drinking in the sight of the nameless worker down the street. Once he got up on the roof, he dropped the shingles and stood there, wiping sweat from his brow. A gust of wind blew by, and Casey pushed her hair back out of her eyes, so she could keep watching him.

Except now, she saw he was watching her.

His movements stilled, and he put one hand on his hip, standing on Mr. Jackson’s roof, jeans slung low, T-shirt a little too snug for polite company, casting a shadow over his features with a hand to his brow to block out the sun. He looked at her for a little while, then seemed to come to some conclusion, as he tossed Casey a casual wave, and squatted to get back to work.

He knows I’m watching him now.

But she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the power that emanated from the man on the roof. She knew she was being stupid, fantasizing about a stranger. Crazy, even. Stalkerish.

But she couldn’t help it. He looked familiar.

She wasn’t close enough to see his features clearly, but there was something about him she recognized.

Casey sat there, legs crossed to ease the ache in her loins. Her arms brushed across her nipples, which were as stiff as pencil erasers, straining against her tank top, every time she raised her beer bottle to her lips. This guy made her hot. Hotter than the Texas heat. The sweat above her lip and on her hairline could have been caused by the sun, but she chose to think it was
him.

Because it wasn’t just her skin that was on fire.

Watching him work made her insides burn with an intensity that was undeniable.

Casey had read that book. The one that had been featured on Oprah a few years back about visualization,
The Secret
. The fact was, she had always been one to obsess over what she wanted. When she’d read the book, she’d realized that if she put enough focus and energy into something, her chances of getting it improved. It seemed to work with her professional life, at least for a little while, but it had yet to work with her love life. Men were definitely the most fun to fantasize about, certainly more fun than jobs. And if she’d come to any conclusions about her life in the last few weeks, it was that she was going to start doing stuff for herself. So here she was, about to fantasize about a strange man… having him here… in her Mom’s house… just for her.

As she finished her beer, she continued watching the man down the street. Silhouetted against the sunset, a brilliant display of oranges and pinks, she could see his body shimmering in the heat of the dying day. He was packing up his things, so Casey decided it was probably time to go inside.

She stood in front of the AC window unit, feeling the frigid air hit her body, as she closed her eyes and thought about the vision of the man on the roof. He’d taken his shirt off, and tanned muscles stretched and flexed as he hammered, bent, and reached. A sheen of perspiration coated his skin, and Casey’s tongue snaked out to lick her lips.

She decided a little fantasizing wouldn’t be out of line. If she wanted him, she should put her thoughts and energies into getting him, shouldn’t she?

Casey imagined him, walking down his ladder, the T-shirt he’d taken off tucked into his back pocket, tool belt slung low on his waist, carrying his sack of larger tools over one shoulder. He slings the tool sack into the bed of his truck, and looks over to her house, question in his eyes.

What color were his eyes? She hadn’t seen him that closely, so she should make up a color. That would make the fantasy more real.

His hair was brown, so his eyes probably were, too. A dark mocha color. Yeah.

His mocha colored eyes squint in question, as he thinks about what he should do. Nodding to himself in answer, he squares his shoulders, and looks down to unbuckle his tool belt. Strong, thick fingers work the clasp as he deftly releases the belt and tosses it into the back of the truck, before throwing in his tee shirt as well. Shirtless, he strides across the street with purpose and marches up Casey’s lawn.

When he gets there, he knocks.

Casey looked down at herself. Some basic hygiene wouldn’t be remiss for her fantasy.

Clad only in a bath towel, she opens the door. As the stranger’s gaze falls on her, his mocha eyes burn with an intense heat that makes Casey’s insides quiver.

He doesn’t say a word, just takes a step inside the house, kicking the door shut behind him, and the need that has consumed him on the walk to her house takes over. He pulls the towel from her body, eliciting an excited gasp from her, before ravaging her mouth with his, while his hands roam over her contours: grasping, stroking, tweaking. Casey is a raging inferno, and this man is stoking her heat.

Casey realized her fantasy had gotten really hot, really fast. The AC unit was not doing its job, maybe a cold shower would.

With one more glance out the front window to see what the mysterious stranger was up to now,
nothing,
he was by the truck,
she went to the bathroom to start her shower. She figured she could continue her fantasy after her shower, maybe in bed with a toy.

Before she could turn the nozzle, a knock at her front door surprised her. She walked back to the front of her house, her stomach fluttering.

Could it have worked? Did her fantasies actually make him materialize at her doorstep? But she had specifically worked a shower into her fantasy, so she’d be clean. Right now, she was still all sweaty from sitting on the porch staring at him all afternoon in triple-digit temperatures.

She steeled herself for a proper mauling, then opened the door, beginning her gaze at his feet. Scuffed, worn leather work boots tucked into scruffy, tar-stained jeans with a small hole in one knee, widened out to the too-tight T-shirt that outlined muscles too numerous to name. When her gaze landed on his face, she saw what color his eyes were, and her breath came out in a whoosh. Gun metal gray. Tabby-cat gray. Smokey gray. Brent Baum gray.

Fuck. Me.

Her voice came out of her mouth sounding like a choking wheeze. “Brent?”

“H
ey Casey.” Brent had no idea what he’d expected when he came over here, but what he saw exceeded everything he’d ever hoped for. Casey Stewart was all grown up now.

She stood in her doorway wearing short cut-offs that showed off a long expanse of smooth tanned legs. Her tank top was tied in a knot under her pert breasts, and the sweat spot on her chest made him think of sleepless nights doing dangerous things. Her brunette curls were piled up on top of her head in a tousled nest that he’d always longed to touch. Her face was flushed, and her eyes widened with recognition when they finally rested on his face after their slow climb up his body.

He wasn’t exactly sure of the protocol here. They hadn’t seen each other in almost twenty years, but he’d thought of her often in that time. Too often. He wanted to take her in his arms and fulfill all kinds of fantasies with her right here and now, but not having a clue if her mind had turned to him once since high school gave him some decorum.

“I was wondering if your mom still lived here.” Suddenly awkward, he looked down at his feet, cursing himself for coming over here filthy.

“Yeah, she’s out of town right now, though.” Still looking at the ground, he saw Casey’s bare feet, adorned with pink toenails and a silver ring, step back into the doorway. “Come on in. You look hot.” His eyes snapped back up to her face to see a flush deepen across her cheeks. “I mean, it’s like a hundred and two out there today. You want some water? I’ve got more beer, too.”

She had widened the door in invitation, and Brent stepped inside the house, barely cooler than outside. He looked around the living room, noticing that not much had changed. The window unit and ceiling fan were blowing full blast, stirring the drapery fabric. The faded couch and rugs were clean, if not completely threadbare. The magazine rack held newer versions of the same magazines he’d seen there before.