Ryan got out of his truck and walked toward his house, but came to an abrupt halt as a large German shepherd came running at him. He positioned himself so the two hundred pound animal wouldn't knock him over. "Hey, Jimbo," Ryan greeted, petting him. "Saw my girl today."

They moved on to the house together and Ryan went directly to the kitchen to make lunch. He put a sandwich together, grabbed a beer and sat to eat, all the while thinking of Jenny Oliver. I'm Jenny Oliver, your speech therapist. That's what she'd said. Your speech therapist.

He'd sought her out. He'd gone to the damned doctor to get a referral and asked specifically for the medical group she worked for. He hadn't realized there were several speech therapists in her office and that he could have gotten stuck with any of them. It was pure luck she'd been assigned him. Or maybe fate. Maybe that was a real thing.

All that research and work, and he'd almost blown it today by saying too much. She'd asked if he stuttered when he was home alone and he'd come within a hair's breadth of saying, No, and not when I whisper, either. "Shit," he muttered. She would have guessed, for sure.

It had been so hard not to let his gaze roam over her shirtfront. She'd worn a v-neck that lured the eyes to her cleavage. Having actually seen and touched those soft, round breasts, he had a particular desire to stare at them. And to taste and to suck them.

He swallowed a swig of beer and closed his eyes, reliving the few precious minutes in the basement. He'd hoped touching her would take the edge off the almost painful desire she awoke in him, but it had only made him hungry for more.

Her blonde hair was cut in layers and she had a nervous habit of toying with the one that fell just below her chin. He'd made her nervous at first, but she'd regained her composure and control. He wanted it back from her. He wanted control. Hopefully he'd get another opportunity soon. Her eyes were greenish-silver. He wondered if they were color contacts or her real eyes? "God, she's beautiful, Jimbo. She's so fucking beautiful."

He'd first become attracted to her blindly, through her voice, which had carried through the fireplace chute he'd been repairing in her building. She must have been sitting in the perfect position, facing the fireplace, and the ash-trap in her fireplace had to have been open, given the way her voice had carried to him. She'd been telling someone what her ex-boyfriend, Mitch, had done to her. "Are you ready for this," she'd sobbed. "You know we haven't been happy for a long time." She'd read the whole letter and then tearfully blurted that the bastard had cleaned out her checking account.

After that, Ryan had made a point of seeking her out to see what she looked like. Just out of curiosity. Never in a million years had he expected her to be beautiful. Luckily, he blended in with the crew, so she never saw him. Anyway, he was good at being invisible. By the time he'd completed the job, he'd rigged a little used door in the basement so he could get in whenever he wanted.

Of course, all he'd ever have of her was a thrilling, anonymous encounter…or maybe two or three, if he were lucky. She was too pretty, too educated and too into power players to ever consider the likes of him. Mitch Crow, he'd discovered, was an ex-pro hockey player turned fancy restaurant manager. He was the kind of man who could always say the right thing. Mitch Crow could be funny or charming or whatever the hell he wanted. Not like him—a pathetic stutterer she felt sorry for. Of course, he had a hell of a lot more honor than Mitch Crow. Not that honor counted for that much. Nothing counted for that much once he spoke. Women were interested, highly interested, until he opened his mouth. It was the way it had always been. He shook his head, refusing to start feeling sorry for himself again. At least, for the present, he had a way to Jenny Oliver. In fact, he had two ways to her. And, in the basement, they were on an even playing field. In the basement, they were each other's secret.