“Are they?”
“No.” He turns off the flashlight and heads back to the kitchen, where he puts it back in the drawer and fills up a glass of water. He stalks back and hands it over. Planting his hands on his hips, he stares down at me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
His strong jaw twitches as his chest rises. “Drink the water.”
“Why? Did you bewitch it with special healing powers?”
“Jesus . . . fuck.” He pushes both hands through his hair. “Fine, do whatever ye want.” He turns on his heel and storms toward the door.
“Wait. I think . . . uh, can you get me a bowl? I think I might throw up.”
With lightning speed, he grabs the kitchen trash can and brings it to me before sitting on the arm of the couch and placing his hand on my back. I lean my face over the trash can for a grand total of five seconds. Then I turn my head toward him and smile.
“Just kidding.”
Annnd ohhh boy, if I thought that storm was bad the other day, the one that’s brewing right in front of me might be even worse. Yes, maybe I should take it a little easy on him after what I learned about his brother, but there’s something about the clench in his jaw that makes me want to keep pushing his buttons.
Before he can erupt, I place my hand on his thigh. “Settle down, Grumps. I’m fine.”
He tears the trash can away and shoves it back in the kitchen. “Good to know.” With that, he charges to the front door, rips it open, and strides outside.
Yikes. Someone doesn’t like to joke in the morning.
Feeling guilty and remembering why I need to be nice to this guy, I chase after him. When I move past the front door of the cottage, I spot him, both hands on the back of his head, his back tensing with anger.
I’m about to say something when he turns around. His eyes widen in surprise as they meet mine, but that surprise is short lived, and he closes the distance between us.
Body vibrating with fury, he gets right in my face. “Don’t joke about being injured. Got it?”
“Rowan, you can’t be serious. I was knocked down, and you’re acting like I cracked my head open.”
His eyes darken, and his jaw clenches so tightly that I’m afraid he might break a tooth. His eyes search mine, and I can feel him wanting to say something. But he doesn’t open his mouth—instead he just stares at me. I wonder what he’s holding back.
Does this have anything to do with his brother? This innate need to constantly protect, to make sure everyone is okay? I think back to what Dakota said about Rowan and rainstorms, the way he tensed every time I slipped. Was that . . . ?
I take stock of the situation: his breathing is heavy, his fists are clenched at his sides. So much anger. So much hurt. It’s all bottled up, ready to be released, and if I don’t defuse the situation, it’s going to blow up right on me.
And then . . . get ready for it, ladies . . .
His eyes fall to my lips.
Yup. They fall right to my lips, which means we have clearance for the one thing that I know will defuse any situation with a man this angry.
Might not be smart.
Might be a little on the dangerous side.
But it’s guaranteed to work . . .
In one swift motion, I grip both his cheeks, pull him down, and crash my lips against his.
Just like that.
Kissing the beast in front of the cottage.
And boy oh boy is it the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Butterflies do not erupt.
There is no sign of hearts flying out of my head.
Nor is there a distant harpist playing romantic background music.
The only things present during this torturous moment are his stiff lips and flailing arms, as if his lips got stuck in a bear trap and he doesn’t quite comprehend how to release himself.
Dramatic much, Rowan?
Deciding to end his apparent misery, I release him, and he quickly steps back, putting distance between us. He runs the back of his hand over his lips while staring at me . . . appalled.
I set my hands on my hips. “Did you just wipe my kiss away?” I can’t help but feel a tad insulted.
“What the hell was that?”
“I asked you a question.” I stand taller.
“What did it look like?” he asks, giving his lips one more wipe while looking me dead in the eyes.
The bastard.
“I’ll have you know, I’m a lovely kisser.” He doesn’t say anything. “And you looked at my lips. I saw it. That’s the universal sign for ‘trespassers welcome.’ And if you didn’t approach me with cod mouth, I could have demonstrated that, but there is only so much a person can do when your lips are puckered up like an ass—”