Accidental Protector: A Marriage Mistake Romance Page 9

  Grabbing a paper towel, he wraps it around the side of my foot. “Damn lot of blood for stubbing your toe.”

  “I guess I cut it, too.”

  “You guess?” Again, that edge in his voice.

  Seriously. What's his deal? By the way he's acting, it's like I narrowly avoided getting stabbed to death by some lunatic in my sleep.

  I give him a smirk. “Well, doctor, I was on my way to check it out when I heard you knocking.”

  “You weren’t asleep?”

  Not about to tell him about Charlie’s phone call, and die of embarrassment all over again, I shrug.

  He grabs my ankle, shifting me around so my foot hangs off my knee, gingerly positioning it near the sink. After removing the paper towel, he turns on the water. Then he takes a clean piece of paper towel and wets it, pressing it softly against my cut.

  It’s tepid, but in all honesty, I probably wouldn’t be able to feel if it was scalding hot. It's not just my toe that's gone numb. Burning.

  My whole body ignites in strange, unwanted ways next to his. I swear, my heart is about to beat its way through my ribs.

  And the rest of me, well...let’s just say that paper towel doesn't know the meaning of wet.

  It's been years since I felt like this. Years.

  And never with Charlie. Only in my dark high school fantasies, where I'd sneak mom's grown up horror books from the library, and flip to all the dirty parts.

  “It’s not as bad as it looked at first. No need for stitches. You're lucky, Lucky.”

  He runs his thumb under my chin, and everything goes electric. Somehow, I remember to blink.

  Wondering what I missed, I shake my head. “Stitches?”

  “Your foot, darlin'. You'd be surprised. Knew a guy overseas who barely scratched himself on a rusty nail. Shit got infected and he almost wound up amputated at the ankle.”

  “Whatever, Noah. You're exaggerating. I'm fine.”

  I'm so not fine. For reasons that have nothing whatsoever to do with my banged up foot.

  He chuckles, a baritone sweetness to my ears, wiping my foot one more time with another paper towel. “Where you keep the Band-Aids?”

  “Uh, Martha's bathroom, I assume. Haven’t needed one before now, so I haven’t looked.”

  He takes one more paper towel off the roll and folds it in precise quarters before he lays it against the side of my foot gently. “Hold this. I’ll be right back.”

  I grasp my foot and try catching my breath as he leaves the kitchen. Thank God.

  Just being in close proximity with this man has me hyperventilating for all the wrong reasons.

  Probably because I spent half the day thinking about him again. That kiss, back at his place, the one that ripped open the sky and put the stars in our tongues...

  I’d tried searching him on the internet, and that Cesare Lucient man he mentioned. I'd also tried to find out what exactly a bounty hunter does in this day and age, but didn’t have much luck. Nothing but goofy parodies and true crime articles that were short on detail about the profession.

  Plus, this apartment doesn’t have the best wireless internet, and the data program on my phone kept freezing up.

  I’m sure I was deep in an amazing dream about him when the phone woke me up. Had to have been the reason why I'd answered.

  Noah was the first person who popped into my mind. I just reacted. Despite the damn caller ID saying Charlie.

  “Found your bandages,” he says, returning to the kitchen. “This was dinging away, too.”

  My heart sinks as I recognize my cell phone in his hand. One minute, I’d been admiring the view, him prowling through the living room. The next, I’m as depressed as a mouse who just realized the cheese was bait.

  Sighing, I snatch the phone. If Charlie called my mother, I’ll flipping kill him.

  He's just the type of little weasel to do it, too.

  But the long chain of texts isn't from mother. They're from Charlie.

  I set the phone aside without reading a single message. So far, he's sent a dozen.

  The phone pings again. Make that thirteen. Talk about unlucky.

  Noah bandages my toe with quick yet gentle meticulousness. I remember how to breathe, and my foot no longer hurts. Now it just tingles.

  So does my leg. Both legs. Actually, make that my entire body.

  Pulling my foot out of the sink, I twist around and lower myself to the floor. Grasping the counter for stability – as much for my mind as my body – I say, “You never answered me. Let's try this again: what are you doing here?”

  “Is the trash under the sink?” he asks, holding up the used paper towels and bandage wrapper.

  Clearly ignoring me.

  Okay, I'm back to wanting to smack his gorgeous looks right off him.

  “Yeah,” I say grudgingly, not wanting Martha's place to risk having blood stains.

  The phone pings again.

  I avoid it, watching as he throws everything away. Waiting for an answer. Which never comes. “So, why are you avoiding my question?”

  He closes the cupboard door before he looks at me sternly. “I’m not avoiding anything.”

  “Oh? Is that why I've had to only ask three times?”

  The phone pings. Again. I'm so ready to chuck it out the window.

  He glances toward it on the counter. “Another text message, Ms. Popularity?”

  I shrug. “What? Did you read them while carrying it in here, or something?”

  That'd be just like him, wouldn't it? He's already barged into my life, gotten us hitched, gotten me wrapped up in God only knows what, and now for some insane reason I let him in at one in the morning to patch-up my toe, while I tried to pretend I wasn't lost in his badass good looks and...and what's one more intrusion? Reading my freaking messages?

  I swear, I'll destroy him, if I don't wind up with his hot, in-charge tongue in my mouth again first.

  “No. I'm not that big an asshole. Just saw the notification on the screen – new text message. Ten of 'em, last I counted.”

  “We're up to fourteen. I think?”

  Of course, I've lost track. He’s looking at me again. His patented Hi, I'm Hercules, and I'm here to tease away the agony of being in the same room with me look. His drop dead, irresistible, downright irritating look.

  Pulling the afghan tighter around my shoulders, I bury my fingers deep in the fist-full of yarn beneath my chin. My nipples pebble just from his gaze. My insides go molten.

  I hate him because I double-hate what he does to me. Without even freaking knowing it, either.

  “Hope you're comfy in that ugly thing.”

  I glance down at the brown, yellow, and orange squares that had been knit together with black yarn. Martha may be an awesome sewer, but I'll never understand her fashion sense.

  The humor in his eyes has me admitting, “It's kinda rough, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He lifts a corner. “Itchy, too.”

  “Maybe,” I say, only now noticing. I tug it closer anyway. “If this is your trick, it's not working. I haven't forgotten. Do I have to ask again?”

  He smirks. “Don't know. Do I really need to answer?”

  My heart skips so many beats, I swear the damn thing stops completely. It kicks back in a second later, pounding so hard I'm almost gasping for air.

  Dare I dream that he’s saying what I think he’s saying? That’s he’s here because he wants to be at one in the morning? With me? Is he really that insane? Am I for thinking it, much less wanting it?

  The phone pings again, and a split second later, it starts ringing.

  Holy shit, enough!

  “Damn, woman. Someone really wants you,” he says.

  I glare at the phone, ignoring the maybe-there innuendo. “I know.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you going to answer it?”

  “No.”

  He cocks his head. Leaving the phone on the counter, I walk to
ward the living room. “I already talked to him. Nothing much left to say.”

  “Him?” Finally. A tinge of annoyance in his voice. Jealousy.

  It's payback time.

  I plop down on the sofa. “Yes. Him.”

  Noah leans against the small partition wall between the kitchen and living room. “Him as in Charlie boy?”

  “Sure. Charlie boy.”

  Who isn’t nearly as gorgeous as you. Who doesn’t have muscles that bulge like the wilderness beneath the sleeves of a t-shirt. Who's not as dreamy as you, either. Or as tan. Or as tall, or as caring, or as...anything. He, who doesn’t make my heart race or my body tingle. In fact, the only thing he does is piss me off.

  My mind is racing with things I can't say. Noah knows it, too. I can tell by the grin that’s a tiny bit lopsided and utterly adorable.

  “What'd you talk about?” he asks. “You and Charlie at one in the morning?”

  I shoot him my best mocking glare. “Oh, so now you want to ask the questions?”

  He lifts a brow. “Only because you're itching to answer more than you are under that damned thing.”

  Damn it. I huff out a breath. So not wanting to talk about this. So wanting to ignore the urge to scratch the itchy spot on my arm left by this stupid afghan.

  Yet, I have to. Charlie will call my mother when I keep ignoring him for real, and knowing her, the landline will ring and the voicemail he'll leave will tell her every last sordid detail.

  That could all happen within minutes. Complete family meltdown.

  I take a gulp of air for endurance. “You. That's what we talked about. Happy now?”

  Creases form on his forehead from his deep frown. “Me?”

  “Is there an echo in here?” I lean back and stare up at the ceiling.

  That’s easier than looking at him. No, wait, it’s not easier.

  He’s easy on the eyes. A distraction, and that’s what I need right now in order to spit out the truth.

  “You, Noah. Charlie called to see if I’d come to my senses yet and I said yes. Told him I met someone that totally puts him to shame. Mr. Perfect, as a matter of fact. Said I wouldn't be coming back, and to get off the line because I had you sleeping next to me. I told him...you were everything he couldn't give me, and never could, because he's not even one-tenth the man you think you are.”

  And I do, too, I add, only to my smitten, red-faced self.

  Then the stupid, stupid phone starts ringing again.

  “Make it stop!” I whine, exasperated, pulling my gaze off the ceiling. I pinch my eyes shut and cover my face for the longest, most annoying five seconds of my life.

  When I look again, Noah isn't leaning against the doorway. He's gone.

  The moment the meaning of his movement sinks in, my phone is in mid-air, and I also hear him say 'hello' as he steps out of the kitchen.

  “Shit!” I leap to my feet and bolt after him. Which, of course – of freaking course – makes my toe start pulsing like it's caught in a giant crab's pincher. Probably bleeding, too.

  Why can’t life just throw me a straight pitch that I can hit instead of all these curveballs? Just once?

  “No,” he says. “It’s almost two in the morning here, Charlie. So shut the fuck up and listen.” He pauses, then says, “Yeah. I’m Noah, and I’d advise against that. You had your chance, and you threw her away like a piece of fuckin' trash. My turn now.”

  He clicks the phone off and lays it down, all the while grinning like a cat who just landed a bird. Or is it the mouse stuck in the trap after eating the cheese?

  “You were right about Charlie boy, Lucky. Real asshole.”

  “That’s because he is!” My lungs rattle as the air seeps all the way out while my mind tries to accept the fact that Noah has now fully confirmed what I’d told Charlie earlier. And sworn at him on top of it.

  Sweet Jesus.

  The circus called my life is about to get a whole lot crazier. Guaranteed.

  Noah grabs my hand and gives me a tug to turn around. “Come on.”

  Excitement rips through my confusion. After telling myself to calm down, I wheel around and ask, “Where are we going?”

  “Bedroom, darlin'. Now.”

  Holy – what? Just like that?

  Remaining as calm as possible, I follow behind him, slower. “Wait. Why?”

  “So you can pack.”

  My brows knit together. I can't fathom how packing has anything to do with us, alone, in the bedroom, unless he's a million times kinkier than I ever imagined.

  “Pack? Pack what?”

  “Your stuff. You know, clothes, hairbrush, toothbrush, whatever.”

  “Why?” I dig my heels into the carpet. “Noah?”

  Again, the silent treatment. And just when we seemed to be making progress.

  I may already be dragged into the bedroom behind him, but I'm standing my ground. “I’m not going anywhere! Not unless you start talking and tell me exactly what's going on!”

  “So, you're just going to sit here, waiting till your ma shows up? And maybe Charlie’s ma, too?”

  “Frick. He’s calling them, isn’t he?”

  “That’s what he said he'd do, yeah. 'bout the time I told him to shut his damn yap.”

  “That slimy, cowardly, two-timing little creep...” I fly into a rage, fists balling.

  “Your choice. Of course, if you’d rather stay here and face them alone in a day or two, I can’t stop –”

  “No! I don't want to face them. Not right now.” I grab my suitcase out of the closet and throw it on the bed before one other point becomes clear. Staring at the suitcase, I admit, “I don’t have anywhere to go. Can’t go home.”

  “You can come stay with me,” he says. Like it's so easy and obvious.

  Wouldn’t that be heavenly? And totally crazy. Stupid, even. “Uh, how about 'no?'”

  My sanity returns. “I have my casino winnings, remember? The ones you didn't want for the divorce? I'll stay at a hotel until this blows over.”

  Something flashes across his face.

  Concern.

  Worry.

  Fear.

  Plus something else I can’t quite describe, but I know that I saw it.

  Disbelief, maybe? An expression on his face like he can't believe this is happening again.

  “Why...Lucky, why would you want to do that?” he asks. “Hotels will cut through a few thousand in no time. Especially with the big air show next week near the Fourth. They're booked to the gills.”

  “Not like I've got much choice. Why would I ever want to stay with you?”

  He shrugs. I'm disappointed my words don't get to him.

  “It's only logical,” he says. Trying his damnedest to play it cool.

  My heartbeat quickens. I can’t give in to all this craziness. Not more of it. Not again.

  I’ve already made a big enough mess, and staying with him? No way. No how. I won’t be able to control myself. Or think straight. I know that.

  “We're getting divorced soon, Noah. Remember? Divorcing people don’t live together.”

  “Says who?” He turns up his nose, glaring down like he's daring it not to be true.

  “Everybody?” Even as I’m arguing, I’m taking things off hangers.

  I’m not staying here. That’s for damn sure.

  Between my mother and Charlie’s, I won’t stand a chance. Anger slices through me. “I majored in music, you know. Great GPA. Loved by all the professors. Spent hours of my life volunteering in schools and with charity kids, teaching them to sing.” Tossing the dresses in my hand into the suitcase, I go back to the closet to get my shoes. All six pairs. I love shoes pretty shamelessly.

  Another thing stifled over the years. Why should it matter how many pairs of shoes I own? It shouldn’t.

  Yet, everything about my life matters, doesn't it? Always to somebody else just dying to give me their opinions. “I even have a teaching degree,” I continue on, while he stares, bewildered. “Why? H
eck if I know! Because I’ll never have a chance to use it.”

  “No, I didn’t know that, and why the hell won't you use your degree? What's it got to do with anything?”

  “Because someone always runs my life.” I throw the shoes into the suitcase and head into the bathroom to get my things off the counter. “Always obstructs. Always orders. Always overrides my decisions. I'm done with that tonight. I'm doing what I want for a change.”

  “You mean me?”

  “Yes. No.” I toss everything into the suitcase. “Hell if I know!”

  My mind is spinning. I should be peacefully asleep right now, not trying to figure out my fate after arguing with two men who never should've been in my life in the first place.

  “You’ll be safe at my place,” he says softly. “Lucky, I promise. Call it a precaution, a chance to get you on your feet. Once things calm down, you can go straight home. Shit, I'll get you a ticket to wherever you damn well please if Phoenix isn't on the itinerary.”

  A chill nips my spine. I know he's comfortable, money-wise, but there's no good reason for him to convince me like this with wild offers. Not unless he's hiding something else. “Safe? What are you talking about? And what do you mean 'calms down?'”

  He starts zipping my suitcase shut. “Calms down with Charlie and your family. After our divorce is final. You got me?”

  “Nope. Not this time, Noah,” I say, more sadness in my voice than there should be. His jaw is pinched tight when I look up. “You're lying to me. I'm not stupid. I know there's more going on here than meets the eye. Isn't that right?”

  He shrugs, but his gaze shifts. Subtly away.

  I shake my head, disappointed because it's true. “Don’t you dare, Noah Bernard. Don’t you dare start running my life while pretending you’re not. Twisting the truth, or leaving me in the dark, so you can get your way. That's exactly what got me where I am today.”

  “Getting rid of your asshole fiancé, you mean?”

  “Yes.” I shake my head. “No, jackass. I mean married. Married, and not able to remember the ceremony or anything else. Married, without the foggiest freaking idea who I'm married to.”

  Finally, his face twists, a near-wince. It should be satisfying, but for some ungodly reason, it's anything but. “Tell me the truth. The whole truth, Noah. Why did you come here tonight?”