First

But when I asked him those stupid questions, his voice was so damn collected!

The fanning isn’t helping. I give up on it and close my eyes, thwacking the paper plate against my forehead as my frustration boils over. No new ideas are beaten into my head. I make an inarticulate snarl of rage, wishing I could have one sign that there might be hope—

The plate is plucked from my grasp and I nearly smack myself in the face with my hand. My eyes pop open. Dally’s standing right there, grinning at me as he holds my weapon of self-flagellation. ‘Having issues, brown eyes?’

Flinging myself against him and begging him to make love to me might be a little too aggressive. Doesn’t mean I’m not tempted. I hold out my hand. ‘Plate?’

‘Are you going to hit yourself with it again?’

‘Why? Does it turn you on?’

He rolls his eyes and drops the plate in my hand before turning his back to me and opening up the pizza box. I flail miserably behind him, hating him and myself and my stupid, stubborn libido that makes me want him so badly I’m actually aching—

‘How many slices?’ he asks. When he looks back at me, I’m calm, extending my plate towards him with a faked self-possession that would make the Queen of England proud.

‘Just one,’ I say politely.

He frowns. I peek around him as he selects me the largest piece and hands me back my plate. He takes three slices.

‘Kitchen or living room?’ he asks.

I’m mid-step, turning to respond to him, when I walk my hip straight into the sharp corner of the stone counter. In those split seconds of initial astonishment before my body recognises what I just did, it’s funny to watch the changes in Dally’s expression. Shock gives way to sympathy to panic so seamlessly.

He grabs my plate and throws it with his on the counter. Like a puppet snipped from its lines, I’m crumpling on myself, hand clutching my hip.

‘Don’t cry,’ he orders.

I tilt my head back, still hunching protectively over my injury with all the grace and tiny arms of a wounded T-Rex, and wail through the immediately rising tears, ‘Don’t you dare tell me not to cry!’

I’m not sure whether pressing my fingers against the wound will hurt less or more. At this point, any sort of movement only sends those poor damaged nerves into louder screams of pain.

‘Dammit, Cat,’ Dally mutters.

It’s an understatement to say I’m surprised when he scoops me up in his arms and carries me to the living room. His grip on me is tight, comforting, and I bury my leaking eyes against his pec, sniffling a bit. By the time he sets me on the couch, the pain is an almost manageable throb. He kneels beside me and pulls up the hem of my shirt, exposing the band of my shorts. I whimper with misery when he hooks a finger under the band, the movement brushing the denim against my flesh. He glances at me, waits, and then inspects the area.

‘Oh, babe, you’re going to have a nasty bruise,’ he murmurs, a long finger brushing the offending area with incredible gentleness.

Wait … babe? Not brown eyes or Cat? My eyes snap up to his face. He’s still scrutinising my injury, giving me a second to really study him. His face has softened, his practiced gruffness gone. He looks … affectionate.

He lifts his finger from my hip and studies me. His face is close to mine, his concern evident in the lines appearing on his forehead. He reaches up and brushes some of my hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear.

‘Will you be okay?’ he asks, hand still lingering there against my cheek.

‘I know something that would make it feel better,’ I say.

The warmth evaporates. He shakes his head and his hand drops. ‘I’m not your gigolo, Cat.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask you that.’

Clearly, he doesn’t believe me. I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. ‘But you could kiss it to make it feel better,’ I whisper.

He freezes. A hardness creeps in around his mouth. ‘If I do this, you don’t push me about your idiotic scheme anymore?’

‘I can’t promise that.’ I don’t shrink under his glare. ‘But I’d leave you alone for tonight.’

He scoffs at my offer.

I need to sweeten the deal. ‘You work tomorrow,’ I remind him. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to just sit down with dinner and be able to relax?’