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Authors: Anna DeStefano
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reassuring.
As he resettled beside her on the floor, the impressive muscles in his upper torso and thighs bunched and rolled beneath his black T-shirt and faded jeans. Talk about disturbing. Did everything about this guy have to attract her the way Esmeralda panted for catnip?
Her attention shifted to the bulge at his side near his waist, where he’d tucked his gun away. He caught the direction of her gaze and came up on one knee in front of her. From the plastic kit, he produced a packet of gauze and tore it open with his teeth.
“I grabbed my weapon when I heard you scream the first time,” he said, unwrapping the towel while he talked. “It was the middle of the night, and I was running from my home not sure what to expect. I’m sorry if I scared you, but you sounded terrified just now, and I was on the top floor, so—”
“So you thought you’d swoop into my kitchen like a one-man SWAT team? Who does that?”
He pressed a wad of gauze to her thumb and applied pressure.
“I know it hurts,” he said over her sharp inhale. “It’s the only way we’ll stop the bleeding.”
“And you know that how?” she asked through clenched teeth.
Actually, it didn’t hurt as badly anymore. Or maybe she didn’t notice as much because Cole was close again, the masculine strength of him easing her frazzled senses. As he worked on her hand, waves of brown hair were near enough for her to reach out and touch their silkiness. She didn’t, of course. But she ached to.
“The same way,” he said, “that I knew how to use the gun I pointed at you a few minutes ago, but never would have hurt you with.”
“You’re with the police?” She watched him root around the box for a second time. Anything, it seemed, was preferable to looking her in the eye.
“Not exactly.”
He pulled out a small white packet and opened it the way he had the gauze. He plucked an antiseptic towelette from the wrapper and replaced the soiled gauze with the wipe and more careful pressure, making her hiss.
Really? That was all she was going to get?
He couldn’t have been more gentle about taking care of her, this man she suspected was a force to be reckoned with wherever he went. But parting with personal information obviously wasn’t his thing. Meanwhile, her addled mind was now obsessing over the clean, outdoorsy scent of him, as if that were all that mattered when it came to trusting the guy or not.
“Okay,” she said. She pointed to the first-aid kit he had gone back to sifting through. “Let’s talk about how you knew that was under my grandmother’s sink. Exactly how close were we when we were younger?”
He produced a butterfly bandage this time. “I’m more concerned about why you don’t remember me or, according to you, anything else.” He wrapped her thumb with an economical twist of his wrist. He looked up from his handiwork. “We knew each other from the time we were little kids until we were nearly out of high school. And I have to say, you’ve never been the type to freak at things that go bump in the night. Now you think someone’s trying to kill you?” A deep frown made his rugged features and cerulean eyes impossibly compelling. “Maybe we should go to the hospital. Did you hit your head either time you fell tonight?”
At his directness and obvious concern, Shaw felt moisture flood her eyes. She glanced at the cabinet, the sink, then at the beautiful silverware scattered on the floor around them. None of her grandmother’s things felt as though they belonged to her. None of it seemed remotely as real as the nearness, the warmth, of this man looking back at her. Which only made her want to cling to him, and she’d be damned if she’d give him another reason to pity her.
“No.” She fingered the scar at her temple. “I didn’t hit my head either time. Not that it matters. Nothing matters in the end. Not when you can’t even remember yourself.”
He stilled. He was obviously curious. Confused. But
As he resettled beside her on the floor, the impressive muscles in his upper torso and thighs bunched and rolled beneath his black T-shirt and faded jeans. Talk about disturbing. Did everything about this guy have to attract her the way Esmeralda panted for catnip?
Her attention shifted to the bulge at his side near his waist, where he’d tucked his gun away. He caught the direction of her gaze and came up on one knee in front of her. From the plastic kit, he produced a packet of gauze and tore it open with his teeth.
“I grabbed my weapon when I heard you scream the first time,” he said, unwrapping the towel while he talked. “It was the middle of the night, and I was running from my home not sure what to expect. I’m sorry if I scared you, but you sounded terrified just now, and I was on the top floor, so—”
“So you thought you’d swoop into my kitchen like a one-man SWAT team? Who does that?”
He pressed a wad of gauze to her thumb and applied pressure.
“I know it hurts,” he said over her sharp inhale. “It’s the only way we’ll stop the bleeding.”
“And you know that how?” she asked through clenched teeth.
Actually, it didn’t hurt as badly anymore. Or maybe she didn’t notice as much because Cole was close again, the masculine strength of him easing her frazzled senses. As he worked on her hand, waves of brown hair were near enough for her to reach out and touch their silkiness. She didn’t, of course. But she ached to.
“The same way,” he said, “that I knew how to use the gun I pointed at you a few minutes ago, but never would have hurt you with.”
“You’re with the police?” She watched him root around the box for a second time. Anything, it seemed, was preferable to looking her in the eye.
“Not exactly.”
He pulled out a small white packet and opened it the way he had the gauze. He plucked an antiseptic towelette from the wrapper and replaced the soiled gauze with the wipe and more careful pressure, making her hiss.
Really? That was all she was going to get?
He couldn’t have been more gentle about taking care of her, this man she suspected was a force to be reckoned with wherever he went. But parting with personal information obviously wasn’t his thing. Meanwhile, her addled mind was now obsessing over the clean, outdoorsy scent of him, as if that were all that mattered when it came to trusting the guy or not.
“Okay,” she said. She pointed to the first-aid kit he had gone back to sifting through. “Let’s talk about how you knew that was under my grandmother’s sink. Exactly how close were we when we were younger?”
He produced a butterfly bandage this time. “I’m more concerned about why you don’t remember me or, according to you, anything else.” He wrapped her thumb with an economical twist of his wrist. He looked up from his handiwork. “We knew each other from the time we were little kids until we were nearly out of high school. And I have to say, you’ve never been the type to freak at things that go bump in the night. Now you think someone’s trying to kill you?” A deep frown made his rugged features and cerulean eyes impossibly compelling. “Maybe we should go to the hospital. Did you hit your head either time you fell tonight?”
At his directness and obvious concern, Shaw felt moisture flood her eyes. She glanced at the cabinet, the sink, then at the beautiful silverware scattered on the floor around them. None of her grandmother’s things felt as though they belonged to her. None of it seemed remotely as real as the nearness, the warmth, of this man looking back at her. Which only made her want to cling to him, and she’d be damned if she’d give him another reason to pity her.
“No.” She fingered the scar at her temple. “I didn’t hit my head either time. Not that it matters. Nothing matters in the end. Not when you can’t even remember yourself.”
He stilled. He was obviously curious. Confused. But
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