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There were tons of things on it, ranging from a stack of papers that looked to be bills to a couple of to-go cups that looked like he was deciding whether to save them to use or not.
Thinking they needed to be washed, I took the lids off, washed them as well as the cups, and then tossed the plastic straws into the trash can.
Laying a dishtowel out on the counter, I not only washed the to-go cups, but I also washed the pots and pans in his sink.
When I got to his silverware, I washed that, too. Only, I stopped to admire the black forks and thought ‘holy shit, I need some of these.’
It was as I was staring at those forks that he came out and startled me.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
I whirled around, keeping the fork in front of my face, awed by what the light did to it in this direction. It almost looked like an oil slick now.
“Wow,” I breathed. “These forks are the bomb. Where did you get them?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, looking at me through the tines. “Six helped me set shit up.”
“Six?” I asked, curious.
“My boss’s woman,” he explained. “Are you going to drop that fork and talk to me normally? Or are you going to keep staring through the tines at me? It makes me feel like I’m back in prison, and that’s not a good feeling.”
I dropped the fork immediately.
“I thought you owned the bar?” I asked curiously.
“I do own the bar,” he said. “But my boss, the one that got me out of prison? He’s engaged to be married. Her name is Six. She’s… colorful.”
I placed the fork down onto the dishtowel I’d laid by his sink and then started to do all the other forks. Only when I was done did I turn around and survey him.
That was when I realized that earlier, he’d been standing in such a way that I couldn’t see that he was shirtless.
Now, with him leaning against the counter across from me in only jeans and bare feet—why were bare feet so freakin’ hot?—I could see his entire lovely body.
Twelve years ago, he’d been buff. Coming right out of deployment had honed his body perfectly.
I’d had my hands on his body. I’d felt his abs.
Other attributes.
But this new Trick? He wasn’t someone my hands knew.
I wanted to run my fingers all along the length of his body, getting to know every new muscle and curve.
Instead, I zipped my lips and offered out my hands.
“Where’s the alcohol?” I quipped.
He gestured to the counter beside him with a jerk of his chin, but otherwise didn’t make a move.
I steeled my spine and walked toward him, stopping close but not too close, and reached around him for the bottle.
“What about cotton swabs?” I wondered.
“I don’t have any.”
I frowned. “You don’t have any cotton swabs?”
He shrugged. “I have paper towels. Why would I have need of cotton swabs?”
“For this instance, right here,” I commented.
“I don’t usually get ran over all that often,” he admitted. “So I’d use them like once in a lifetime.”
“Or, someone might be over here doing their toenails?” I teased. “Sometimes we want to wipe all that polish off, and paper towels just don’t cut it.”
He looked at me with a raised brow as he turned and caught up multiple paper towels.
“The first and only woman ever in this apartment was and is you,” he said simply.
My lips were so dry, but I refused to allow myself to lick them, thinking that he would get the wrong impression.
“Turn around and lean against the counter,” I squeaked.
He chuckled as he did, the deep, dark timbre of that rusty, unused laugh sent shivers down my spine.
I took the paper towels he was holding out to me and folded them nicely before tearing them in half and then thoroughly soaking them in alcohol.
I looked at the broad expanse of his back and nearly moaned when I saw all the muscles that were lining his back.
God.
A man shouldn’t have that many muscles. They should really be all puny and bleh.
At least in my opinion. Trick’s especially. Because looking at him right now, I wanted to draw my lips all over his skin, tracing all those muscles with my mouth.
“Does it look bad?” Trick asked, disrupting my thoughts.
I sighed. “It looks… rough.”
Now that I was looking at it, I could see that it was probably paining him even though he made it look like nothing was wrong.
The scrapes went from his right hip all the way across his lower back, and then up toward his armpit.
“What did you hit?”
“I think it was a tree trunk or something,” he admitted. “It goes a little lower, too.”
I gulped.
Oh, I wanted to look lower, and it had nothing to do with his road rash… or tree rash. Whatever had caused it.
