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“It’s gorgeous and just right.” That comment earns me an eye crinkle.
I wander into his domain. “So, you’re into fixing things?”
He shoots me a dark glance then an irritated nod.
“Mechanical things?”
He smooths his hand down the quilt. Stops to pick up some clothes on the floor and throws them toward the hamper, but misses.
He shrugs. “People know to come to me.” He walks past me into the main room of the flat, which is dominated by a large table covered in metal parts.
“You’re a fixer. A healer,” I murmur. I look at him, really look at him to find him watching me with such intensity I fight not to take a step back.
A shoebox in the center of the table with holes punched in the top catches my eye when it makes a rustling sound.
He folds his arms across his chest. “I try too.”
“I bet you’d fix anything. Cars, bikes, a bird with a broken wing.” I look toward the table where the rustle has drawn me.
He sucks in a breath, his eyes narrow. “How do you know?”
I move to the cardboard box on the table, where a tiny beak pokes through the air holes. I slide the lid to the side to reveal a sparrow with a tiny splint on its wing. There’s fresh water, food, and a cradle of shredded newspaper for a nest.
My eyes mist with a memory.
“Barnyard our cat brought in a bird when I was a kid. Everyone said to put it out of its misery, but I couldn’t. I took it everywhere for days.” My voice wobbles, and I clear my throat. “I hope you have better luck than I had with Betty.” He shoots me a look. A wobbly smile tilts my lips. “She didn’t make it.” Damn, more waterworks threaten. I’m tired and orgasmed out, but something about him touches me. “Not everything can be saved.”
“Aye, I know.” He says it kind of sadly. Before I know it, he’s standing in front of me. He cups my wobbling chin in his strong hand. “But you’ve got to try.”
A breath whooshes out of me. “You do.”
He brushes the corners of my eyes with his thumbs.
“I’ll never give up trying.” I tilt my chin.
“Neither will I.” A sad smile curves his mouth.
I wish my face could stay trapped in his warm palms, but he gives me one last searching look, then pulls away.
He moves around the apartment with nervous energy.
What makes the man tick? What demons follow him? I’ve known him for all of five minutes, and I’m no Freud, but this man feels like he’s in pain.
“You don’t stop moving,” I say, and he doesn’t. He’s like a gazelle who’s always on the lookout for a tiger. His hands are always in motion. He’s walking or moving side to side. I itch to soothe him, to run my hands along his shoulders and down his chest, then clasp him to me.
“I enjoy keeping busy.” He nods at me.
“You don’t have time to sit down and analyze things?” Shit, that’s out of my mouth before I know it. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “Sorry. Math major, psychology minor.” What is wrong with me? A gorgeous stranger is offering me his bed, and I’m psychoanalyzing him.
Intrigued, I pick up a smooth shiny rectangle box. A silver on/off lever on the black surface.
He takes the box from me and puts it on the table. “A boy down the road asked if I could help assemble it. He’s been bullied and told the fuckers–my words not his—he’d bring them a problem they couldn’t solve.”
“Press the button.” He indicates the box.
I lean forward and press the button. Immediately, a claw pops out, turns the switch off, and closes the lid. I do it again, and again. Laughing. “I’ll get you, you little sucker.”
He smirks. “You won’t.”
