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“Oh, please. I didn’t roofie it so I could cut off locks of your hair once you pass out and sell them on the internet.”
Wide-eyed, he lifts one hand toward the silky brown locks, fuller on top than around his ears.
“I mean, if that’s what you were thinking, anyway.”
“That’s entirely too specific not to be true,” he says, studying me in a way that has me fidgeting.
And I don’t like being fidgety.
I jab a finger at his foot. “Take your boot off while I grab some ice.”
“Aren’t you going to say please?” he drawls.
“I’ll say please when you thank me for aiding your stubborn ass in the first place.”
He sweeps an arm down his leg theatrically. “For this? This is nothing. I had everything under control.”
Folding my arms across my middle, I snort.
Actors.
“Believe me, I’m regretting helping you by the minute.” Then, because irritating him might be my new favorite hobby, I add sweetly, “Thankfully, you won’t be my problem much longer.”
A hint of annoyance flits through his hardened expression. “And what, may I ask, is that supposed to mean?”
After his earlier reaction to the suggestion, I’m not about to tell him I’ve already texted Penelope. If he needs serious medical attention, I have no clue where a hospital is around here. And given she’s my only lifeline in Augustine, I didn’t have much of a choice otherwise.
My smirk is nice and defiant, irking him further. “Boot. Off. Now.”
Marcus’s complaining follows me to the kitchen, where I snag a first aid kit from the cabinet above the sink and search its contents. Tucking an Ace bandage into the crook of my elbow, I open the freezer and scoop several handfuls of ice into a plastic baggie.
“Guess I should be glad you’re not some psycho fan,” he says as I zip the top of the bag and grab a towel from the handle on the stove.
“Funny how that whole ‘not everyone is obsessed with you’ thing works,” I retort on my way back to the couch.
I halt just inches from his foot, swallowing thickly at the sight of Marcus’s bare skin.
An image of what the rest of him might look like unbiddenly burns its way through my brain.
Annoyingly smug, he says, “What’s the matter, slayer? I thought you said you knew what you were doing.”
The nickname makes my stomach do a mini flip.
Lifting my chin, I carefully settle myself onto the floor and tuck my legs under my butt. There’s no visible discoloration around the joint, but there is some swelling on the inside of his heel.
“I never said that.” The moment my fingertips touch the bump, he jerks back. I wait for him to relax before considering the injury further. “Although, I was a girl scout for a couple of months once upon a time.”
“Forgive my ignorance,” he says impassively. “I wasn’t aware of your caliber of skill.”
I sit back on my heels. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Not,” Sir Dick Head offers, but then waves me on before shifting toward the window.
While he watches Sparrow nibbling the grass in the yard, I contemplate various forms of strangulation.
“Thought you only drank cinnamon lattes?” I’m not sure what possesses me to ask—curiosity or the simple need for answers.
His eyes fall to his untouched coffee mug, perched on the windowsill. “And where did you come up with that tidbit of information, an online quiz?”
