Page 5 of All Hale the Queen

“Thank you for the ride, Antonio,” Ophelia says, reaching for the door handle, but I stop her with a hand on her arm.

“Please. Let me.”

She stops and dutifully waits for me to exit the SUV, round the front of it, and open her door. When she takes my offered hand, I feel an electric sensation travel from my fingers and up my arm. The step down is a little high for her, but with my help, she manages it gracefully. Hell, everything about this woman is graceful, from the delicate curve of her neck to her designer skirt and top, which are a flattering shade of periwinkle.

“Thank you again,” she says when I release her hand.

“I’ll walk you in,” I reply, like we’re on a damn date. When she opens her mouth to protest, I narrow my eyes. “I insist on making sure you get inside okay.”

Ophelia’s lips are painted the softest shade of pink, and she gives me a small smile before nodding. She leads the way up the slate-lined walkway, and I fall in step beside her, my hand itching to rest on the small of her back. Instead, I allow it to hover just behind her.

She punches in a code on the front door, and we enter her high-ceilinged foyer. The floors are a light-gray marble, and everything in the space is light and airy, from the eggshell walls to the pastel artwork.

Ophelia sets down her purse on a side table. “Would you like a glass of tea or lemonade?” Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s something a bit hopeful in her gaze.

“A lemonade sounds great,” I say. I really should just go, but fucking hell. I’d like to spend a few more minutes with her. And when her lips curve up at the corners, I know I made the correct decision.

I trail her down a short hallway lined with a variety of family photos. When we turn into her expansive kitchen, Ophelia gasps.

“Oh shit.”

Water is pouring from beneath her sink and inching across the floor. I jump into action, removing my suit jacket and tossing it onto the back of a chair before rolling up my sleeves. “Do you have a tool kit?”

“I, um, yes,” she says, staring at the mess with a mixture of horror and panic.

“Go get that for me,” I order, sloshing through the water to the island.

Thirty minutes later, I’ve stopped the leak and patched the pipe beneath the sink. I wipe my forehead on the sleeve of my shirt as I stand. “That should hold it, but you’ll need to contact a plumber to repair it properly.”

“Thank you, Antonio. I’m so glad you were here. Otherwise, I would probably still be waiting on someone to get here to help me, and I’d have water up to my knees.” Her smile is warm and genuine, but it fades when her eyes rake down to my sopping wet clothes. “Oh no. You’re all wet.”

“It will be fine,” I assure her. “But I might need to borrow a towel.”

Ophelia grabs one from a large stack on the breakfast table. I guess she gathered them while I was working. But instead of handing it over, she unfolds the sky-blue towel and begins drying my bare arms.

“Your tattoos are beautiful,” she comments, her gaze raking over the celtic cross on my forearm.

“Thank you,” I reply, my voice hoarse as she moves to blot at my shirt. I like having her hands on me, more than I have any right to. When she pats the front of my pants a couple times, she freezes, her eyes jerking up to mine. I can’t fight my smirk as I take the towel from her. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

Her cheeks pinken, and it’s the most stunning sight I’ve ever seen. “Of course.” She pulls her eyes from me and surveys the water on the floor, shaking her head. “This is a damn mess.”

“Do you have a shop-vac?” I ask.

Ophelia drums her fingers on her chin. “Yes, I believe there’s one in the garage.” She indicates a door off the kitchen. “If you want to check, I’ll see if I can find you some dry clothes. I think I have something of Helix’s here that will fit you well enough.” All three of her sons are well over six feet tall like me, but Helix is the broadest since he was once a competitive swimmer.

It takes another couple hours to get everything clean, and I use one of the guest bathrooms to wash up and change clothes while Ophelia throws the soaked towels into the washer. When I emerge barefoot in black sweatpants and a gray MIT T-shirt, I find Ophelia pouring two tall glasses of lemonade.

“Would you like to sit on the front porch?” she asks, and I notice she’s changed into black yoga pants and a loose-fitting green top that hangs off one shoulder. She looks just as beautiful as she did in her designer clothing.

By the time the sun begins to fade down behind the trees hours later, Ophelia and I have drunk an entire pitcher of lemonade while sitting on her wide porch. We started out in two rocking chairs with a small, round table between us, but when we started looking at that Urban Dictionary site, we moved to her wooden porch swing so we could share the same screen.

Ophelia has her slender legs curled up beneath her, and she’s leaning slightly against me, something I’m not complaining about a single bit. My bare feet are against the cool concrete of the porch, swinging us back and forth in an easy rhythm.

She’s nothing like I ever expected. Ophelia has always been friendly enough to me, but today, I’ve seen a different side. She’s warm and funny, and I goddamn well like her.

“Which one was your favorite?” she asks, tapping a well-manicured finger against the side of her phone.

I stroke my beard. “Hmm, that’s a tough one. There were a lot of funny entries.” My eyes catch hers. “And some very disturbing ones.”