He hadn’t hit his thumb with a hammer in years. His focus wouldn’t let that occur. But, of course, he didn’t have to look far for the distraction that caused the injury. Hannah O’Leary. The redheaded, hot-tempered, sexy, brilliant, fascinating woman. How foolish was he to still be thinking about Hannah two hours after he’d left her? Christ, had the little witch put a hex on him or something? Never had a woman’s face remained stuck in his mind every waking and sleeping hour like Hannah’s had. Why did there have to be more to her than met the eye? Why couldn’t he just admire her sexy body and fantasize about taking her to bed? Why couldn’t he just imagine her naked and straddling him, riding his cock until he exploded deep inside her? No, instead he had to pry into her past and hear a compelling story of survival that earned his respect and admiration. And he knew she had hardly told him the whole story. He could only imagine what her life had been like if she lived on her own at fifteen.
