Story, Inc.

You guys really need to help us put a title to this sucker.

So guess what, it's that time. Friday story hour.

To read the beginning of the story, go to the Friday, March 31st entry on Kaia's blog: http://kaiajames.bravejournal.com/

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The man dragging the trunk gave a shout and jumped nearly three feet, spinning in midair. Leanne stared, open mouthed as he came down facing her. He had on faded blue jeans that had worn clear through to skin in places, a Bowling for Soup T-shirt with 1985 written in bright pink across the chest and an attitude that had nothing to do with the here and now. He needed a hair cut and a shave . . . or maybe not. Fashion didn’t appear to be high on his list.

“You Leanne?” he asked, assessing her with the same critical thoroughness she gave him.

His question confirmed her suspicion. He belonged to her sister. Suzy was forever dragging home this same type of man—big, bold and rotten to the core. She couldn’t get enough of them even when they took her heart, her soul and usually her money. He snapped his fingers at her.

“You Leanne?” he repeated.

Me Tarzan, you Jane. For the love of God.

“Why don’t we start with you,” Leanne said. “Get out.”

His mouth dropped open and his brows came together in surprise. He looked like he was trying to match her words up with their meaning.

“Let me see if I can make that clearer,” she said. “Get out now.”

His mouth snapped shut and he shook his head. “Suze said to meet her here.”

“Well Suze doesn’t live here. I do.”

A dark flush crept up his neck and his jaw clenched. For the first time since she’d seen the trunk disappear into Suzy’s old bedroom, common sense surfaced. It probably wasn’t wise to piss off the scary Neanderthal. She braced herself for irrational rage.

Instead she received an apologetic look from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m sorry,” he said. He had blue-gray eyes, eyes framed with thick dark lashes. They seemed luminescent in the dim lighting.

“Suzy gave me the key, told me she’d be here to meet me. . .”

He really looked sorry, too and somewhat hopeful.

“This used to be our parents house. Now it’s mine. I just never took her key away.”

“Christ,” he said, shoving his hair back from his face. He locked his fingers together on top of his head and exhaled. The action stretched his shirt over his broad chest, pulled the sleeves tight over his biceps and made Leanne suddenly, painfully aware that she was wearing her flannel Christmas pajamas, complete with frolicking reindeer and jolly snowman. She’d been too tired to take off her make up before going to sleep so no doubt it was smeared all over her face. And her hair—she stopped herself. Did she really want to consider what her hair looked like?

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To be continued next Friday on Kallie Owen's blog... http://kallieo.bravejournal.com/ Hopefully you'll have helped us find a title by then....