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“Nonsense.” Sutton buries his hands in his pockets. “Stay, have a beer with us. Besides, if I know my Sunshine, she won’t let you leave like that.” He nods toward my chest. I glance down and realize that most of the blood that escaped Frankie’s pinched fingers ended up on my chest. The white T-shirt I’m wearing has a smear of red across the center. So does the collar of my leather jacket.
“Wow, Julian. You’re really rocking the serial killer look these days.” I look up to find Lauren Masterson eyeing me as she walks into the kitchen. “Did I miss the drama? Who’s dead? Was it that one girl with the really annoying laugh? I’m surprised she hasn’t broken any of your windows, Theo.”
Sutton grins before crossing the kitchen and opening the fridge door. “Not a teenager, thank goodness. Just Frankie.” He reaches in and pulls two bottles out. “Actually, what did happen, Julian? Nice to see you, by the way. Did Sophie invite you?” He tips his chin at me as he pops the caps off the beers.
I slide my jacket off and drape it over a chair. Now that I’m thinking about it, my shirt is wet and tacky against my skin, but I don’t want to strip in the middle of the kitchen. Especially in front of Lauren and who knows how many kids in the backyard. Instead, I grab the offered beer and take a sip.
“Thanks, sir. I was dropping my son off for the party, but when he opened the truck door, he accidentally bashed Frankie in the face. I didn’t realize this was your house until I saw Sophie.” I take a longer sip, letting the cold liquid soothe the heat building in my cheeks. Now that my adrenaline is wearing off, my reaction seems more than a little over the top.
“And you swooped in to her rescue?” Lauren clasps her hands under her chin, batting her eyes dramatically at me. I don’t see her nearly as often since Sophie left Mailbox for her new job at Hype—I forgot how over the top she is. “Please tell me you carried her in here like a big, brooding hero. And that you wouldn’t let anyone else take care of her?”
“Erm…” I rub a hand along the back of my neck, the picture she’s painting a little too close to what happened for my comfort. Which is ridiculous. I’m only protective of Frankie because of the way the guys treated her when she started at Mailbox. We’re just friends.
Sophie’s laugh saves me from having to answer. “He did, and it was exactly as swoony as you’re imagining, Lauren.”
Mr. Sutton meets my eyes across the kitchen and shrugs. “Just let them have their moment. It’s easier that way.” He pushes off the counter and crosses to Sophie, sliding an arm around her waist and dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Everything okay?”
Sophie nods, a happy smile on her face. “Yeah, it’s just a bloody nose. Nothing broken, that I can tell.” She looks over at me. “I’m about to throw Frankie’s stuff in the laundry—let me wash your shirt, too, before that stain sets in.”
“I don’t want to be a bother—it’ll keep until I get home.” I shrug off her offer. The longer I stay, the more uncomfortable I am. This is Theodore Sutton’s house. My boss’s boss. I don’t belong here. I’ll finish the beer he handed me and then go home and wait for Liam to text me he’s finished.
“Nonsense. Give me your shirt.” Sophie makes a grabby motion at me.
Lauren chokes on a laugh. “I didn’t know you guys had that kind of relationship.”
Sophie’s face goes beet red as Lauren’s words sink in. I hide a chuckle behind the bottle in my hand but avoid making eye contact with Mr. Sutton anyway. Sophie was my friend at work for three years before they started dating, but I don’t want to risk giving him the wrong idea about our friendship.
“I’ll, uh, be right back.” I snatch the shirt Sophie brought me off the table and pause, not sure which way to go.
Mr. Sutton nods toward the hall on his right. “Bathroom’s down there. First door on the left.”
“You’re not going to give us a show? I’ve always wanted to see your whole tattoo.” Lauren’s teasing words follow me down the hall. “Bow-chicka-bow-wow!”
I hurry down the hallway, grabbing the handle of the first door I see and stepping inside to get away from Lauren’s teasing. But it’s not a bathroom I step into. It’s a spare bedroom, by the looks of it, but it’s not the bed that has me frozen in my tracks.
Frankie’s standing next to the bed, jeans sitting low on her hips, her bare stomach exposed as she pulls her shirt off. The lacey, barely there bra she’s wearing is dark green against her ivory skin, even paler than the rest of her.
“Julian!” She snatches the shirt off the bed, holding it in front of her chest, scrunching her face as it touches her skin and dropping it again. “Don’t look!” Making little squeaks, she turns her back on me, pawing through a pile of clothes on the bed.
“Shit!” I back up, reaching for the door behind me, but all I feel is the wall. “I’m sorry, Frankie. Shit. Dammit, where is the—?” I keep feeling for the door, my eyes glued to her neck, to the pink creeping up to her ears. Finally, my fingers brush the handle, and I slip back out.
Shit.
He said left, not right.
Fuck.
Heart racing, I step across the hall and slip into the bathroom. I pull my bloody shirt off and drop it on the floor, ignoring it as I brace my hands on the edge of the sink.
God, I’m a fucking idiot. Here I am, charging into Mr. Sutton’s house, acting like a goddamn caveman over a fucking bloody nose, and then I barge in on Frankie while she’s changing. Could I be any more of a menace?
Her startled eyes burn into my brain, sliding in neatly beside the other scene that lives in my head. The look of absolute terror that had been etched on her face when I found her at the holiday party. The shallow rise and fall of her chest as she’d gasped for breath while her manager whispered furiously at her. I didn’t need to hear what he was saying to know that she needed a rescue. Unfortunately, my idea of a rescue must have scared her as badly as Drunk Derek’s words, because by the time I’d gotten him in a cab and on his way home, she’d disappeared.
And she’s barely looked at me since.
I shake out the shirt Sophie brought me, eyeing it. Mr. Sutton isn’t a small man, but most men are small compared to me. There’s no way it will fit me.
I set it aside and flip on the faucet, thrusting my hands into the cold water, letting Frankie’s blood wash away down the sink. A pink droplet in the sink tells me Frankie was here washing herself off earlier. I scrub my hands, checking in the mirror for blood anywhere else. There’s a bit on the side of my neck, probably from when I insisted on carrying her, and I grab my shirt off the floor to wipe it off.
