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Ignoring me, Jake scoots further down the branch and reaches out for Elvis who glances down at his rescuer with the smug satisfaction of a Marvel super villain about to unleash mayhem.
“Turner get down!”
Jake starts making kissing sounds, and if I wasn’t so worried about him breaking his neck, I would say it’s darn cute.
Elvis gets up from his prone position and stretches, tail wiping arrogantly back and forth. Then he takes another look at Jake and turns tail. The devil’s hand puppet jumps down on a branch on the other side of the tree, leaps off the trunk, and executes a perfect landing.
I scoop him up quickly earns me a low growl. “I could kill you,” I push between gritted teeth.
Once the cat is secured, my attention pivots back to the stubborn man in the tree. “Do not move. I’ll be right back.”
I dump Elvis in the Austen and hurry back to find Jake looking unsure how to get himself out of this mess. “I’m getting the ladder!”
“Hang on. I think I got this,” he tells me, glancing left and right, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
“You do not got this!”
Does he listen? No. He swings down, hanging by his arms, then his hands, then fingers. But he’s still too far off the ground to be safe.
His shirt rides up to reveal a flexed six pack, and I’m stunned into silence. That six pack has the same effect on me that a phone has on an infant. I’m in a spell. I want to explore and inspect for days on end. I want to––
“I think I need a ladder,” I hear him mutter.
Now is not the time, however.
“Are you freaking kidding me! Now? Now that you’re hanging by your fingertips?!”
Too late. He lets go and falls to the hard ground with a grunt. Horrified, I run over and dive to my knees. “Turner!” His face twists in pain. “Turner! Jake are you okay? I’m calling an ambulance.”
I move to stand and he catches my wrist.
“Don’t. I’m fine.” Using me for leverage, he sits up and stretched his legs out, flexes his ankle, makes another face.
“Is it broken?! Please tell me it’s not broken?”
He chuckles drily. “Help me up.”
When I stand, his gaze meets mine, and for the first time, there’s no cold apathy or irritation there. There’s none of that. And what’s even better is that there’s more than a little amusement.
Holding out his hand to me, I take it and pull against his considerable weight. I throw everything I’ve got into it, which isn’t much to be honest.
Once he’s on his feet, he tests out the ankle.
“How bad does it hurt?” I can tell from the tightness around his mouth that it hurts.
“Not at all.”
“Really bad, then.”
“Two hundred and twenty.”
“What?”
“I weigh two twenty. Not two fifty.”
I find myself inspecting his body parts again. Measuring. Weighing. Yes, I know, we’re not doing that anymore, we shouldn’t objectify men or women. That’s absolutely true. Problem is, my lonely body parts haven’t gotten the memo.
He clears his throat and it jolts me out of my wayward thoughts, my gaze lifting to get a better read on him. Anyone else would believe the expression of indifference. Not me. Na. Not even a little. I can see the unspoken challenge in his eyes from a mile away.
“Congratulates. That’s still too much for that branch. You could’ve broken your neck.”
“Are you done?”
“Yes.”
“Help me get to the porch?”
“Yes.”
“It’s only a little sore,” I hear him mumble as I get closer.
He throws his arm around my shoulders, and I hold my breath. It’s all I can do to contain the sigh. His weight against me, his heat, the way he smells. There’s something familiar about him that I can’t explain.
Once we get inside his cottage I see more paintings stacked against the wall. All finished. He releases me and hops to the refrigerator in the kitchenette, pulls an ice pack out of the freezer, and grabs a bottle of NSAIDs out of a cabinet.
“Maybe I can drive you to an Urgent Care,” I say, feeling completely awkward in his personal space.
Turning, he leans his butt against the counter and slams two pills in his mouth. “I played an entire season with a fractured collar bone.”
The sympathy pain I’m feeling makes me nauseas. “Oh––”
“This is nothing.”
Holding onto the walls for support, he hobbles into the main room and sits on the distressed leather couch facing the bed. Which, naturally, my attention gravitates to without permission.
I can’t stop picturing Turner naked, the swell of muscle, the size of him. All that tan skin beneath the white linens with the CC monogram. God help me, I’m starting to sweat. I hook a finger in my turtleneck and tug, giving myself some room to breathe.
Meanwhile, the man I’m having inappropriate thoughts about is busy kicking off his sneakers and peeling off his sock. A scar runs up the inside on the sore ankle.
