Hurricane Breeze

The doorbell rang. Growling in frustration, he got up. Tiffany stood on his entry. Again. Her hair was banded atop her head like a mushroom cloud. Moisture glistened on her face. She wore nylon running shorts and a white tank-top which clung to her in damp patches, revealing impressions of a lace bra underneath. A faint tinge of female perspiration mixed with something citrus wafted up. Inexplicably, his groin tightened.

She strode toward the kitchen, rubber flip-flops flapping, and returned, waving her cell phone. "I forgot it. Sorry."

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"I've got to find a place for Grampa. No power, no air, and it's got to be nearly ninety. I'll make some calls. Find out when the electric company thinks we'll have power. Might have to find a hotel for him. This heat is taking its toll."

He couldn't stop himself. "My power's on. My air-conditioning works."

"I noticed."

"We're on different transformers," he said.

Was it the air-conditioning that made her nipples stand up under her shirt, through her bra? "Why don't you both come over?" he said without thinking. "I'll fix something for dinner, you can clean up, cool off."

"I don't want to impose. Grampa can be a handful, especially when his routine is disrupted. He's been kind of zoned this afternoon."

Take the out.

"It's no problem. I've got a guestroom with two beds. You can both stay the night. I insist." What was going on? Insist? By choice, he never had visitors, and now he was inviting people over, weeks before deadline? Had he become a character in a story, with some unseen author writing his dialogue?