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“Dot, I’d never leave you like this.” There was a two-second pause. “You’re a construction hazard. Someone could trip all over you.”
That made me snort out a laugh, which resulted in snot shooting out of my nostrils. In the absence of a tissue, I balled my shirt over my fist and quickly wiped my nose with my sleeve. “You didn’t see that,” I mumbled.
“See what?” He tugged me up to my feet, tucked me under his arm, then ushered me in the direction of the construction site I’d decided to fall in. I guessed it was Dylan’s gift house. The place looked almost ready to move into.
“My wiping my nos—ohhh, I see what you did there.” I sniffled, burying my face into his pecs to avoid eye contact. “Sorry about the, erm, nervous breakdown.”
“That’s all right. No one wears nervous breakdowns better than you.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze.
Being in his arms felt good. No, not just good, divine. I could see myself getting addicted after that first hit. I felt like nothing could hurt me as long as he had his arm wrapped around me. Which was dumb because Row was the very thing that could rip me into shreds.
He shoved one fist into his front pocket. “So what do you think?” He jerked his chin to the property in front of us. “Tell me while I take you inside and break in that first aid kit.”
I blinked the dirt out of my eyes. “Oh. Wow.”
This pretty much summed up my feelings toward the mansion. It was huge. One of those modern, avant-garde architecture thingies that looked like an origami piece. A low, wide, white block of concrete. A wraparound pool engulfed the property, and bare cement steps led to the heavy front doors, which we ascended together. It looked futuristic and clinical. One of those homes you saw in reality TV shows and wondered how people actually lived in them.
“C’mon, Dot. You used more words than that to describe a tissue yesterday.” He pushed the doors open.
“Hey, that was a supersoft tissue. My nose was very grateful. Was it the Costco brand?”
“Answer the question,” he chided softly, and I knew what he was doing—taking my mind off my obvious panic attack. Keeping me engaged.
“Am I interrupting anything?” I looked around. My echo bounced across the walls and ceiling.
“No, I made a pit stop here before heading to the restaurant for an inventory count.”
“You visit the restaurant before you pick me up?”
“Yeah. I get there at around ten, help with prep and inventory, staff meeting, marketing, then go back home for a quick shower before picking you up.” Then he stayed until we closed shop, at around midnight.
“Do you have a life?” I blurted out.
“A what?” He feigned confusion, walking over to a beige luxury kitchen and popping open an exotic quartzite drawer. He produced a first aid kit. “You hate the house, don’t you?”
“Hate is such a strong word. I only hate political grifters and frosted tips as a hair trend. Even David Beckham couldn’t pull it off.”
“Are you going to tell me what you think about this house anytime in the next century?” He grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me over one of the two kitchen islands facing each other. Like a lightning strike, every hair on my body stood on end. To make matters worse, he didn’t let go of my waist while he pulled a wad of antiseptic wipes from a container. I wondered if he felt it too. Like he was brought to life by a simple touch.
Calm down, girlie. He doesn’t like you. Just wants to make sure you don’t die on his property.
“Should I check you for a concussion?” He scowled. “You haven’t said anything in over a minute. I’m starting to get worried here.”
“The house is…modern.” I cleared my throat.
“And you don’t like modern?” He propped my right leg up, straightening and holding it by the back of my ankle. Pulling my legging up, he exposed a nasty-looking scrape. It looked worse than it felt, oozing blood and dirt. “Gonna sting a bit. Pinch me if it gets to be too much.” He slung one of my hands over his rock-hard shoulder.
Swoon.
“Modern is great.” I swung my gaze upward, toward the ceiling, refusing to be turned on by this innocent, tender moment.
“Liar. You think it has all the charm of a Walmart warehouse.”
“It’s not what I’d choose for myself,” I admitted.
He wiped my scraped shin with the antiseptic wipe, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulder with a wince. It burned worse than acetone on a paper cut. “Right. You’d go for something Victorian. Lots of arches, iron railings, churchlike steeply-pitched rooftop.”
That was freakishly accurate. “Are you able to read people’s minds? Like that Mel Gibson romcom? Is that, like, a medical condition?”
