Fate, right?
It’s waiting.
My fate, however, is currently sitting on a stretcher with one leg hanging off and his bad leg propped up in front of him. He looks as grumpy as a bear with a burr up his butt, and his leg is so stiff it looks like a lump.
That position isn’t good for you, I want to tell him, but I don’t think it’s something he wants to hear right now.
Curling my hands in their gloves, I venture, “Listen, Blake, I’m sorry for being so reckless—”
He cuts me off with a snort, almost amused. “Broccoli, since I found you down the side of the mountain next to a burning van, can’t say I’m surprised ’bout you being reckless,” he says dryly—but not without some warmth.
God, I could bask in those lilting, deep rolling syllables like they’re a glowing hearth, even with the crackling edge of pain in them. “Am I really so obvious?”
“Yeah, darlin’, you sure as hell are. And you don’t get to apologize when I’m trying to do the apologizing.”
I blink, staring into flashing blue eyes shadowed by the sharpness of his brows.
Laugh lines, I decide, tracing the furrows in his brow around his eyes, his mouth.
Even if I’ve barely even seen him smile, I know that look.
Blake looks like he’s got a face meant to laugh.
Only, he’s not laughing now while I stare at him, dumbstruck. “Um. Why are you apologizing to me?”
“’cause you keep catching me at a bad time, and I damn near chewed your head off. Again.” He grinds his teeth, jaw working back and forth, and looks down, hands gripping his thigh tightly to either side. He kneads himself so lightly it’s easy to see he’s struggling not to flinch at the slightest pressure. “You’re not the only one who’s obvious. I ain’t good at dealing with pain, lady. Especially not when I go ass over elbows in front of someone else. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like a pissed off wolverine. You seen the shit those things can do?”
I almost choke on a laugh. “Wolverines? I—”
“Never mind. Point is, it wasn’t right of me. Not today or the night your ride went kaboom. I’m sorry for slinging so much crap your way.” His gaze sharpens.
“Oh.” I can’t stop my smile. I probably look like a total dope since I can’t seem to look away from him. “It’s fine. I mean, I’m used to getting snarled at by big man-babies who can’t handle a little pain.”
He lifts a brow.
I raise my hands, flexing my purple-coated fingers. “I’m small, but I’m fierce. I’ve done a lot of massages. Over a thousand. I’ve even taken down bigger men than you with these hands.”
He’d started to scowl when I said man-babies, but as he stares at my fingers, his lips twitch briefly—before he ducks his head with a sound suspiciously like a repressed laugh. “Okay, little fuckin’ Broccoli Girl.”
Bad move. My hands drop, bunching up at my sides.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, my voice flat.
“Don’t call me a man-baby.”
We trade scowls. Then he grins at me, and it’s a good thing I’ve got my feet planted firm to the ground, or my knees might just give out under me.
Yep, I officially hate whatever insanity this weird, electric sparky thing between us is.
Oh, but when Blake Silverton grins, you’d better believe it transforms his face.
So much emotion, it might be the full spectrum.
Wolfish. Feral. Rakish. Bright and full of secret laughter dancing in those midnight-blue eyes.
And so dangerously compelling, this magnetism that just pulls like he could draw me against his body with just a glance.
“Riiight,” I mumble faintly. “No man-baby. No Broccoli Girl. Deal.”
Wowza. I’ve got to get over this and stop acting like a kid.
His smile fades, but the warmth lingers in his features, softening their crags as he studies me. “So you really as good as you say with those paws?”
“I’m usually not short on clients. And I don’t stay in the same places long,” I answer, forcing myself back to some semblance of focus. I can’t let him see how much he flusters me, though I don’t think I can hide how hot my face is. “And I get a lot of repeat customers, so I must be doing something right.”
“Well, if you think you can do something with this…” He balls up his fist and thumps his thigh—then hisses, baring his clenched teeth. “Fuck.”
“I can’t do much if you do that again,” I say, folding my arms. “Stop. You’re not helping. You’re just creating more bruised tissue around the trigger point, and believe it or not, bruises tear muscle fiber. They’re called micro-tears, and if you keep creating tears that have to heal around the pain source, you’re going to actually make the pain spread.”
It all comes tumbling out of me, motor-mouth central, but hey.