Smitten by Janet Evanovich

shook her head. “No. But I have a much better idea what he looks like. I got to see a lot more of him.”
    â€œWonderful.” He put the truck in gear,turned the heater on full blast to warm Lizabeth, and pulled out of the cul-de-sac. “The man is a fruitcake, Lizabeth. Normal people do not go flashing in the rain.”
    â€œYes, but I think he’s a harmless fruitcake. Where are we going? My house is in the opposite direction.”
    â€œWe’re going to my town house. We’re going to get some of my clothes, and then we’re going back to your place. This guy’s flashing career is coming to an end.”
    â€œJust exactly what are you going to do?”
    â€œI’m going to spend the night with you. I’m going to wait for the flasher to appear. Then I’m going to break every bone in his body.”
    â€œNo! You can’t do that. He’s not a violent person. He’s just a little misguided. I think you should talk to him.”
    â€œTalk to him?” Was she kidding? “Fine, if that’s what you want, I’ll talk to him. First I’ll rip the bag off his head, then I’ll grab him by his lousy tie, and then I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him if he ever comes within a quarter of a mile of you, I’ll break every bone in his body.”
    Lizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and slunk down in the seat. She made a disgustedsound with her tongue and stonily stared out the truck window.
    â€œNow what?” Matt asked. “I agreed to talk to him. Now what’s wrong?”
    â€œThreatening to break every bone in his body isn’t talking to him. It’s macho garbage.”
    â€œMacho garbage?” His mouth turned up in a broad grin.
    â€œUnh!” Lizabeth rolled her eyes. “You know what you are? You’re a…a carpenter!”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œBig shoulders, nifty butt, no brains. It means you have to prove your manhood with a display of muscle.”
    â€œYou think I have a nifty butt?” He sounded pleased.
    â€œHave you been listening?” Lizabeth shouted.
    â€œYup. The part about the no brains isn’t true. I may not have a fancy education, but I’m not stupid. The rest of it I suppose is okay.”
    He parked in a numbered space and pointed to a brick-front town house. “That’s mine. Number twenty-two.”
    The rain had slackened off to a fine drizzle. Matt went around the truck and opened the door for Lizabeth. “Come on. This is your bigopportunity to see what sort of house a macho garbage-man lives in.”
    â€œI’m sorry about the macho-garbage part. I got carried away. Are you insulted?”
    â€œNo. You’re probably right. Sometimes I definitely have macho-garbage tendencies.” He unlocked the front door and followed Lizabeth into the small foyer.
    Lizabeth looked into an empty living room. There was no furniture, no rug, no curtains. Just a motorcycle. “There’s a motorcycle in your living room.”
    â€œI don’t have a garage.”
    â€œAh-hah,” she said, trying to sound as if his explanation was perfectly ordinary and logical.
    My Lord, she thought, he owns a motorcycle. A big, black, shiny motorcycle. She’d never actually known anyone who owned a motorcycle, and she equated this sort of motorcycle with men who drank motor oil and robbed convenience stores. She was falling for a man who had a tattoo and owned a motorcycle! A man who wanted to beat up on an innocent flasher.
    Of course, he was also the man who set her on fire with his kisses and encouraged her to run and jump in the rain. A man who boughtsticky buns for her dog and played soccer with her kids. She stared at him.
    â€œDo you belong to one of those gangs?”
    â€œA bikers’ club?” He grinned. “No. That’s not my style.” He took her hand and led her upstairs. “Mostly I live up