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Scarlett peers intothe living room at the strange man. He’s slumped in the chair by the fire, one hand rubbing his head. He’s acting so strangely, but for some reason she’s not scared, or threatened by him. It makes no sense whatsoever, but she feels safe around him. She doesn’t even know his name. He could be an axe murderer for all she knows.
Which isn’t exactly a helpful thought.
He doesn't look like an axe murderer. She stops stirring their drinks and glances at him over her shoulder, then shakes her head. No, he definitely doesn't look like the axe murderer type.
But isn’t that the point? If axe-murderers looked like axe-murderers, no one would let them in. She shakes her head again. No. He just crashed... something, was injured, and now needs help. That’s it. Nothing suspicious, except the fact he’s not really answering her questions.
He’s hurt though, so maybe he’s just dealing with that.
She peers around the doorway. If he is an axe-murderer, he’s a seriously hot one. The whole outfit isn’t helping either. Coming here was meant to help her avoid anything Christmas and man related. Now she’d ended up with someone who reminds her of a young, and irritatingly sexy Santa.
‘Get your hormones under control, girl.’
‘Sorry?’
She grimaces to herself, smiling at him through the doorway. ‘Nothing. Just talking to myself.’ She darts back behind the wall and leans against the counter. Perfect. She needs to keep her internal monologue internal.
She straightens her hair, then picks up the tray and goes back into the living room. The man is still in the chair, looking like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. She places the two drinks, and plate of toast on the table, then grabs her first aid kit. ‘Are you going to take your coat off?’
He turns his head to look at her, clearly weighing up his options. Surely deciding to take off your coat or not isn’t that big of a decision.
‘We’re in the middle of a snow storm. You’re not going anywhere for the moment. And that’s not a threat,’ she adds quickly. ‘It just might be a good idea to get comfortable. Besides, if I was going to hurt you, it would have been easier to leave you outside overnight. Not drag your heavy ass back here.’
Seemingly convinced, he pushes to his feet and shrugs off the coat before settling back in the chair, clutching his side.
‘You’re holding your side. Are you hurt there too?’
‘Yeah, I think so. I’m sore all over, to be honest.’
‘You crashed. I’m not surprised. Take off your top and I’ll sort it out.’
He slowly pulls down his braces, then peels off the white top. Scarlett stares at what was under his top, struck dumb by this body. The vast expanse of solid muscle looks like it’s been carved from stone. Her ex worked out every week, but he wouldn’t get close to this, even if he worked out every day.
Then she notices his arm and her admiration turns to confusion. His right arm has a sleeve tattooed on it. But it’s the theme that confuses her the most. His arm is covered in a mix of candy canes, nutcracker dolls, holly leaves, snow globes, all in glorious colour. If it’s Christmas related, it’s on his skin. Each image joins seamlessly to the next, to create one solid, stunning masterpiece.
She gets lost in the images, finding something new to admire everywhere she looks. She keeps her hands on her lap, forcing them to stay where they are. She wants to touch him, needs to run her hands over his chest and explore each perfectly defined muscle.
Before she can control herself, she drops her gaze to his crotch. He shifts in the seat, pushing his hips forward. She’s sure he didn’t do it on purpose. But the change in position brings that bulge in his perfectly fitted trousers closer to her.
Scarlett shakes herself out of her thoughts. ‘Sorry, where else have you hurt?’
She meets his eyes and stops. His lips are parted, his eyes firmly on her. Oh God, did he realise she was staring at him like he’s a piece of meat? His mouth curls into a small smile and he gestures down his body. ‘Down there.’
‘Excuse me?’ Scarlett says, her voice a little higher than planned.
‘Whopping great bruise on my side,’ he adds, his grin still firmly in place.
She looks down and sees an impressive and colourful bruise, a thick gash sitting right in the middle surrounded by dried blood.
‘Oh right. Sorry. I’ll clean that for you.’
‘I can do it.’
‘Don't be silly. Just sit still and let me.’ She passes him the plate of toast. ‘Eat that while I’m seeing to the cuts. I’ll start with the one on your head. If that stays down I’ll make you something else.’
