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But the man rolls his eyes. “Don’t insult me with shitty booze.”
Well, then. I tilt my head, voice hard. “Maybe you should wait out on the sidewalk after all.”
Because if there’s one guarantee, it’s that this stranger is nothing but trouble. He’s already dripped blood through my store and stained my vintage velvet armchair, and the frosty air from the street outside keeps gusting through the open door. Every now and then, a flurry of snowflakes whirls through the shop and makes me shiver.
A burst of laughter echoes from the bar a few doors down. I swallow hard against a surge of foreboding.
What am I doing?
Seriously, how did I get here?
Maybe he can sense my plummeting mood, because the man sighs softly and leans forward an inch. A hand spreads over his chest, and I try not to notice how strong and masculine it is, with those long fingers and squared knuckles and that expensive watch.
A signet ring glints on one finger. Is he married? He’s still watching me with those gray eyes. “Forgive me, bella.”
He shouldn’t call me that if he’s married… but then I’m sure plenty of criminals step out on their wives. Their moral code is not a top priority.
Doesn’t matter. Lethal wound. Focus.
“I’m not trained or anything.” Band-aids and rolls of gauze and antiseptic wipes slither everywhere as I dig through the first aid kit. “I mean, I did a day course last March, but I don’treallyknow what I’m doing.” I hated every second of that course, too. They showed us this slideshow of gross household injuries and I nearly threw up. “Your doctor’s coming soon, right?”
“Yes.” The man unbuttons his shirt with stiff movements then peels it open wide, and I fight the urge to wolf whistle. He isfine.Sculpted and trim with dark hair dusting his chest, and his stomach muscles may be tensed from the pain, but they’re giving me all kinds of inappropriate thoughts.
He hisses between his teeth as the fabric clings to the wound before giving way. Blood oozes from the cut, thick and gloopy. Gross.
“Just slow the bleeding. He’ll do the rest.”
Ugh.
Okay. Okay.
My face twists into a grimace as I press a cotton pad against the bloody gash in the man’s side. Heat washes over my knuckles, and he grunts, abs twitching, then spreads a warm palm over mine and drags me firmer against his skin. “Press harder, bella. It’s deep.”
It’s a stab wound is what it is. Nothing else it could be. “Did you deserve it?” I ask, voice strangled.
I mean, most people don’t just get stabbed for no reason—and this guy oozes danger with his dark, expensive clothes, the glint in his eyes, and the way his powerful body sprawls in my armchair like a panther.
His smile has sharp edges. I can feel this man’s pulse thudding under his skin. “Depends who you ask, I suppose.”
I snort, because the thought of me asking around after this stranger is ludicrous. My survival instincts may be rusty, but theydoexist, thank you. “I think I know better than to ask anyone anything.”
His eyes glitter. “I knew I liked you.”
Oof. I’ve always known there was a screw loose in my head; whenever I read a romance book or watch an adventure movie, I always crush on the villain. But how have I found myself alone in the store with a stranger after dark, pressing down on his lethal wound with butterflies in my belly? I should be scared, right? Or at least counting down the seconds until he’s gone.
Instead I’m…enjoyingmyself, the nagging concern for his wound aside. I keep gnawing on my bottom lip, wondering how I can get him to say more in that deep, rough voice. He smells good, too. Like a citrus aftershave.
Okay, I’ve been quiet too long. It’s getting weird. “While I have you here, shall I tell you about our winter special offers?”
The man tips his head back and lets out a rich laugh, and even though it must hurt his wound, we’re both delighted when he looks at me again.
This is so surreal. I love it.
“I know you’re not a notebook fan,” I go on, gathering steam, “but I bet I can find the book for you. Is Crime your genre?”
The stranger rolls his eyes. “Too obvious.”
“Historical fiction?”
