was she crying about? She’d had stitches a half dozen times in her life, not to mention the two broken bones she’d earned on the roller derby track a few years back. This injury was nothing in the scheme of things. But for some reason—maybe lack of sleep, maybe excess of Shane, maybe both—her emotions were bubbling up like cheese under a broiler.
“Almost done.” He swiped some clear goop on it and sat back on his heels. “Looks like a pretty deep cut in the center there, but with the scrape surrounding it, stitches would be really uncomfortable. The bleeding’s slowed a lot, so I don’t think that’s necessary. Let’s bandage it tight and then when you come over tomorrow, we’ll take another look, okay? As long as we keep it clean and covered until it starts to heal, I think it will be fine.” His eyes met her in a frank stare. “You’re going to have a scar, though.”
She released her death grip on the porcelain. “That’s okay, I have several. Beats having to go to the hospital.”
“When was your last tetanus shot?”
“Three years ago. Cut my foot open on a rusty chunk of rudder in Montauk when I was surfing.”
“That works. They’re good for ten years for this type of thing.” He stood and tossed the dirty Q-tips he’d been using into the trash can and set the antibacterial cream on the sink. “You going to bed soon or what?”
“As soon you leave. I’m exhausted, and I think the combination of choking and then falling shook me a little. Why?” She eyed him warily, not sure where he was headed but pretty sure she wasn’t going to like it.
“I want to bandage this in a way that allows you to sleep how you’re used to. Part of the scrape is on your knee and anytime a cut is on a joint, keeping it covered is going to be a pain in the ass.” He scooped up the roll of gauze and tape and held out a hand to her. “Come on. Let’s get you into bed and you can show me how you lie.”
She stared up at him, a flash of the last time they’d been near a bed together racing through her mind like a Cinemax flick. “Uh, that’s okay. I sleep flat on my back, legs straight.”
“For real?”
No. Not for real. But she had no intention of getting in bed with him nearby. She nodded vigorously, ignoring his outstretched hand and pushing herself to her feet with a wince.
“That’s creepy. Do you fold your hands over your chest like a corpse?”
“No. But I do sleep in a coffin,” she deadpanned, skirting around him for the door. “We can do the bandage in the living room. I’ll get some scissors.”
To her relief, he followed without any argument. She made her way gingerly to the kitchen, grabbed some scissors from a drawer, then settled onto the sprawling velvet couch with her leg outstretched. “Do your worst,” she muttered, and pinched her eyes closed.
“Stop being a drama queen. This part shouldn’t hurt.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was killing her already, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Now, without the promise of pain to distract her, the thought of his hands all over her legs sent a shiver through her, and she gritted her teeth to suppress it. It was a no-go and she could feel the goose bumps breaking out on her skin.
“Want me to turn on the fireplace?” Shane asked. His voice was coming from her feet now, where he was likely kneeling as he’d been in the bathroom. Semi-hysterical laughter bubbled as “while you’re down there” jokes ran through her mind, unfiltered. She didn’t trust her voice to answer him, so she just shook her head, resolutely keeping her eyes closed.
The whir of the tape and snip of the scissors seemed to echo through the quiet room, and she wished she’d turned on the TV. It felt like forever before he started the actual bandaging, but when he finally did, the reality was far worse than she’d even anticipated. The hand he used to steady her leg while he worked was big, hard, and intimate. And every time she thought he was done, he came back to adjust, add more tape…more touching. She wanted to look down so bad. To see if the calloused pads of his fingertips were absently caressing the soft skin on her inner thigh, or if she was imagining it. Either way, another rush of chills ran over her, and the breath caught in her throat.
“Cat?”
Shane’s voice was low and husky…strained. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared into his. The look she found there sent her senses reeling. Stark, unapologetic need. The tension poured off him, and he leaned forward until their faces were only a few inches apart.
“Why are you afraid of me?”
“I’m n-not.”
“Then why wouldn’t you let me into your bedroom?”
“There was no need. I told you, I sleep flat on m—”
“Bullshit.” He reached out a finger and trailed it over her cheekbone. “I spent a large chunk of my teen years at your house. You don’t think I walked by your room sometimes and saw you sleeping like some ginger chinchilla, all rolled up in a ball?”
She drew back, his touch and that honeyed tone luring her toward a place she didn’t want to go. “Then why did you need to see if you already knew?”
“I wanted to lay the bandage on and see if it would be an issue. But don’t try to deflect. Why the lie?” He closed the gap between them, his breath feathering her lips. “And why the goose bumps?” The fingers on her thigh tightened and suddenly, every good reason she’d come up with not to kiss him died.
She let herself lean in that last scant inch, and his warm lips covered hers. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but the sweet rush of emotion clogging her throat wasn’t it. His smell felt as familiar as the sunrise, and she instinctively leaned into him, taking the kiss deeper. She traced the seam of his mouth with the tip of her tongue, and he opened with a groan to meet it with his.
He rose up higher onto his knees and pushed her back into the cushions, slanting his torso over hers, taking control of the kiss, hot and demanding. He ran his tongue over the tender inside of her bottom lip, then sucked, sending a shiver of need through her. Her nipples stiffened and she plunged her fingers into his hair, wanting more, needing more.
Their harsh breathing was as sexy as any soundtrack she’d ever heard, and the rise and fall of his chest against her breasts slowly drove her insane. The skillful fingers that had been tracing circles on her thighs tightened, and he growled against her mouth. “I want you so bad,” he gasped, pulling away to trail kisses over her jaw, along the length of her collarbone, heading for her breasts, which strained against her T-shirt, aching for his touch.
She froze, breath suspended, as he paused and then closed his teeth gently over her hard nipple through the thin cloth. She jerked forward as the touch blazed a path from her breast to her core. Moisture flooded between her thighs and she swallowed a cry.
Music sounded in the distance, and they both froze. He sent her a pained expression. “ABBA?”
It was. “Fernando,” to be exact. Ever since Lacey had seen Mamma Mia on Broadway, she’d obsessed. Saved by the ringtone. “Yeah. That’s Lacey calling. If I don’t call her back, she’ll be worried about me.” Her heart was pounding so loud, it was a wonder she’d heard the phone at all, but thank God she had. She’d almost repeated the same foolish mistake.
He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah.” A muscle worked in his throat, but he released her instantly and stood. “And sorry about that. I shouldn’t have let you kiss me. You’re obviously having a rough day. Probably best if we forget it happened.”
Forget it? Not bloody likely, but nice to know that he wanted to. Wait… “I kissed you? You kissed me.” Even as she said it, the memory of his face inches in front of her before she dove at him like a seagull on a french fry ran through her mind. Jesus, she had kissed him.
He’d already grabbed his coat from the closet doorknob by the time she’d gathered her wits enough to respond, but he beat her to the punch.
“Sure. At least I was awake this time, right?” He pulled the coat over his broad shoulders and gave her a wink. “Take two ibuprofen before you go to sleep. You might be a li
ttle sore tomorrow.” With that, he turned and walked out.
Son of a bitch. She stared at the closed door, baffled. How did she keep getting herself into these situations with him?
She snatched up her phone to whip off a text to Lacey, letting her know that she was home and exhausted, and that she would call her tomorrow. Then she put it on silent mode. She just didn’t have the energy to talk about this shit right now.
With a sigh, she uncapped the pill bottle Shane had set on the table and tapped two orange tablets into her palm. He’d given her the perfect excuse to cancel their appointment tomorrow. She could be sore and it would be so easy to take that lifeline, but then what? Avoiding him altogether was out of the question now that he’d be home for good soon. Not to mention she’d never backed out on a bet.
Hell, who was she kidding? There was way more at stake here than either of those things. After their near miss, it had become crystal clear—if she didn’t get Shane settled down with a nice girl soon, she might not be able to resist the temptation to fill the slot herself. Not okay, since “settled down” and “nice girl” were so not on her bucket list.
Decision made, she popped the pills into her mouth, washing them down with a gulp of ice-cold water. Time to break those newly forming ties to Shane before she was bound and tied forever.
Chapter Six
The doorbell rang and Shane crossed the room to answer it. Cat stood on the porch wrapped in a long, wool coat. There was no reason to think she’d be naked underneath, but his dick was clearly more optimistic. He had to cut the big guy some slack, though. It had been a restless night for both of them, and he’d been tortured by the most erotic dreams he’d ever had after his kiss with Cat. He’d been so right about that. Now that he’d tasted those lips again, they were all he could think about.
He pulled himself together quickly and opened his mouth to greet her, but she cut in before he had the chance.
“Are your mom and dad home?” she asked, her breath forming a puffy cloud in the air.
“No, they just left. I forgot, they play canasta on Tuesday evenings.” He stepped back to let her in, but she paused in the doorway. “Is that a problem?”
“Uh-uh, I just thought they’d be here.”
Judging by her expression, that had been more of a hope than a thought.
“They’ll be back later. Mom left stew for us, though. She thinks it’s a great idea, by the way. The whole dating service. She’s been angling for more grandkids. Hard to believe the Reign of Terror hasn’t cured her of that.”
“It hasn’t cured you of wanting kids, has it?”
He cocked his head and took a second before answering, in case the question was more than just a casual curiosity. “No, I don’t think so. It’s definitely made me reevaluate how soon I want to have them, though.”
She slipped in past him and beelined for the stairs. “Did you pack any dress clothes?”
“Not really, but my bedroom closet is still full of stuff that I never got around to clearing out when I moved.”
“We’ll see if any of that will work.”
“How’s your leg?” He trailed behind her up the steps, taking in the sway of her curvy hips under the heavy material. When she reached the top she hung a left, heading for his bedroom.
“Better, thanks. No bleeding, I changed the bandage this morning, and so far so good.”
“Glad to hear it.” She’d stopped in the center of the room and was aggressively ignoring the bed, her gaze taking in everything but. “Want me to take your coat?”
Their eyes met and held for a moment, and she wet her lips. “Sure.” She slipped the coat from her shoulders and handed it him. He took in her appearance and held back a growl of appreciation. Black boots hugged her trim calves, and fitted gray jeans clung to her thighs, the outline of the bandage on her injured leg the only indication of yesterday’s mishap. The short, red, off-the-shoulder sweater that capped off the look should have totally clashed with her hair. But it didn’t. She looked bold and beautiful.
“You look great.”
She glanced down at her clothes and smiled. “Thanks. The sweater is part of my winter collection. I’d planned to do it in cashmere, but then fell in love with the way this mohair gave it such an interesting textural quality.”
The pleasure she took in her work lit up her face, and he found himself wishing he knew more about clothes. Then maybe he could keep her talking. Unfortunately, he’d reached the bottom of the conversational well on fashion.
“Anyway, as you were saying, I do look pretty great. And that makes one of us.” She wrinkled her nose, sweeping an assessing gaze over him from head to toe. “First we’ve got to lose the T-shirts. You’ve got a good body under there, and they definitely showcase that, but we can do better. Flaunt the goods but still let people know that you have some taste and more than eleven dollars in the bank to boot.”
He glanced down at his shirt and frowned. “I don’t get what the big deal is. It’s just a T-shirt.”
“Exactly,” she said triumphantly, wagging a finger at him. “We can do better. Do you have any suits in here?” She turned to riffle through the tiny closet. Every so often, amid the scoffs and snorts, she handed him an item of clothing, most of which he hadn’t worn in years. No surprise there. His parents had modernized some of the house since he’d left home, but his room was like one giant time capsule. The walls were still the same New York Giants blue that they’d been since his junior year of high school, and were riddled with pennants, posters, and foam fingers. Football and basketball trophies lined the shelves that ran the perimeter of the back the room. He was only glad he’d had the foresight to take down his framed Eagle Scout patch before she’d come over. No reason to give her more ammunition to support her theory about him.
She snapped her fingers a few feet in front of his face and called his name. “Hello? Anyone there?”
“I’m here. I was just thinking how ludicrous it was that you imagined I might get all decked out in a suit for coffee or a drink. It’s not the eighteen hundreds. People go on dates in jeans all the time. I don’t know what you think it is that I’ve been doing the last nine years, but I’m not a shut-in, Cat. I can dress myself.”
She ignored him and held a brown sports coat up to his chest, sizing him up with a practiced eye. “This is perfect. Casual enough to seem like you don’t care that much, for the girl who likes them aloof, but dressy enough to show you care, for the girl who likes a guy to put a little effort in.” She pushed by him and tossed the jacket onto the bed. “You want to keep the T-shirt, I’ll work with you. Wear it under this with those jeans.” She gestured to the ones he had on. “You get dressed—I’m going to raid the bathroom for hair product and see what we can do.”
She whirled away and he stared after her. “Hair product? You mean like gel or something? Do I really need that?”
She didn’t bother to answer, the opening and closing of his bathroom cabinets answer enough.
Fine. None of this shit mattered anyway. The point was to keep her close, and he was definitely succeeding. He tugged off his T-shirt, then pulled a clean one out of his top drawer.
“I found some…” Cat stood in the doorway of the bathroom, can of mousse in her hand. Her gaze was glued to his naked chest and sent a sizzle straight to his cock.
“I thought you were wearing that T-shirt under the jacket.”
Her voice sounded froggy and he bit back a grin. “I’ve been wearing it all day. I figured I’d get a clean one.” He should’ve pulled the shirt over his head then, but if she was enjoying the show, who was he to stop her? He fisted the cotton, leaving his hand hanging by his side and her view unobstructed.
“What,” she cleared her throat and tucked a strand of fiery hair behind one ear, “what does the tattoo represent?”
He was about to answer, then stalled. If he told her, it would derail her current fascination with his body, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for her to stop looking at hi
m like he was food.
He opened his mouth to tell her the same thing he’d told the last couple women he’d been with when they’d asked. Some lame bullshit about liking the pattern. But he found the words stuck in his craw. Instead he lifted his free hand to the symbol and held her electric-green eyes as he spoke. “Taken literally, it represents hope when things seem hopeless.” He let his fingers drift to the next black character, tracing the still slightly raised flesh with his thumb.
He waited, wondering if she would press further…hoping she would. Hoping she wanted to know more about him, his life and what he’d been doing these past bunch of years.
She bit her lip, the indecision plain on her face. Then, she turned away.
Ouch.
“Cool. Finish getting dressed and we’ll do your intro video. Then I have some ideas for still shots we can take. Do you have an ax?”
He nodded, yanking the T-shirt over his head. “Yeah.”
Felt like one was lodged in his gut.
…
Cat set the video camera on the oak dining room table and peered at the screen. “Okay, sit up straight because you’re slouching a little.”
Shane straightened and frowned. “Is it even rolling yet?”
“No, but I want to make sure you fit in the frame when you’re sitting right.”
Shane didn’t say anything, but that was nothing new. For the past twenty minutes, since their emotionally charged exchange in the bedroom, he’d been even quieter than normal. But in spite of her every effort not to, she couldn’t stop thinking about his tattoo and the meaning behind it. Was it something to do with his job? Or about a woman?
That thought made the French cruller she’d eaten on the way over feel like a lump in her stomach. How stupid was that? Jealous over a woman who may or may not exist. Exactly the reason she never wanted to feel so much for a man. It did nothing but muddy the water. Good sex, companionship when needed, and common interests—those were the things she was looking for in a relationship. Get too caught up and someone ended up compromising until they’d compromised so much, they became someone else. A mirror for the person they were with.
A vision of her brilliant mother smiling her way through another student’s painful performance of “Hot Cross Buns” flitted through her mind, and she shoved back the guilt that came with it.
Fuck. That.
“Can you see the script?” she asked Shane, shaking off the memories and melancholy to focus on the task at hand.
He leaned in to look at the iPad propped up near the camera and nodded. “Yup.”
“Okay, readyyy, action!”
“Hello, ladies, how you doing?” He stopped abruptly and held up a hand. “Jesus, Cat, seriously? I’m not saying that. It makes me sound like a tool. What’s next, my astrological sign?”
“No,” she said, her tone sharp. “It was supposed to be funny. Like Joey from that old show Friends. Like, ‘How you doin’?’ If you think it’s so bad, you come up with something better.” She grabbed the iPad and covertly deleted the section about him being a Taurus and “strrrong like bull,” which had seemed funny and kitschy when she’d written it, but less so now. “What do you want to open with, Casanova?”
“How about just, ‘My name is Shane Decker.’”
“No salutation? Seems rude, but whatever.” She adjusted the script and set the tablet back up so he could see it. “Okay, now just roll with it this time. If you don’t like something, we can deal with it after. You’re going to need a few retakes anyway, so let’s use this first one as a trial to get you comfortable in front of the camera, tweak the lighting, etc. Pretend you’re talking to really hot girl instead of a piece of equipment. Ready, aaand, action!”
Shane looked down at the table for so long, she was about to stop rolling and snap at him again, but then he lifted his head and pinned his stormy gaze on the camera. A wicked smile spread across his usually serious face. “Hi, my name is Shane Decker. I’m not much for chatter, so I’ll get right to the point. I have some cue cards here telling me to describe my ‘type,’ but that’s not me. I respect and love women. All types of women.”
His voice rang with sincerity and Cat found herself leaning forward, literally on the edge of her seat.
“So if you think you’re too tall and skinny but have a smile that makes people want to smile back? You’re my type. Curvy and always trying to lose that last ten pounds, with a loud, bawdy laugh? You’re my type. A little older than me, with some lifelines that look earned and the confidence that comes with age? My type. Life is short, and I want to spend it with someone who recognizes that, and takes happiness wherever they can find it. If you think I might be your type, send a message to Shane84, and we can meet for coffee.”
The room was silent but for the dishwasher running in the background until Shane spoke again. “Was that okay?”
“Uh, yeah. You went off the grid a little, but it was fine.” Fine? It was more than fine. What woman didn’t want to hear that a sexy guy like Shane would love them even if they weren’t perfect? The women at MeetMyMate.com were going to be salivating over him.
Which was great. Exactly what she’d been hoping for. Wasn’t it? So why did she want to claw their collective, imaginary eyes out?
Shane smacked his hands on the table and stood. “Let’s go get these pictures done and then we can eat.”
She needed to stick to the plan. It was only a matter of time before all this excitement and anticipation she felt around him faded and things would be back to normal. It was nothing more than infatuation. The same she’d felt a million times before, except now—just like with that fat slice of strawberry cheesecake she’d almost managed to say no to the night before, after her kiss with Shane—it seemed larger than life because she was depriving herself of it. As soon as he was settled with someone new, and she got some space, she’d be thanking her lucky stars she dodged this bullet.
Note to self: buy another cheesecake on the way home.
She forced a cheery smile. “Sounds good. Where’s your ax?”
“Probably in the shed. I forgot to ask, why do we need an ax again?” He led her toward the back door, tossing a glance over his shoulder.