That’s when I scream.
The man isn’t out on the patio. He’s inside the house.
16
I’m staring at the reflection of Tess Owens in the glass wall, my heart frozen in my chest.
A naked Tess Owens.
Fuck, why is this woman always naked? And why is she here of all places?
We paint an odd picture in the glass. The lighting is just right to show me standing in the middle of the entryway on my crutches and her standing in the kitchen holding a glass of wine. We’re separated by a wall that stops just a few feet ahead of me.
She sees me and I see her and that’s when she screams. The dog is already barking, and its pandemonium as I watch her reflection spin around, no doubt looking for a weapon. I wouldn’t put it past her to come around the corner swinging a frying pan.
“Tess!” I shout, shuffling forward on my crutches.
Meanwhile, the dog keeps barking.
“Get the fuck out!” Tess screams, still lost to her terror as she spins around holding a kitchen knife. “I’m calling the police right now!”
“Jesus—fuck—” I grunt, swinging down the short hallway. “Tess, put down the knife. It’s me. It’s Ryan.”
I turn the corner and fumble with the crutches as I free one hand and jerk my hood back, letting my messy head of blond curls free.
She’s standing there in all her naked glory, brandishing a knife, looking fierce as a red-haired warrior goddess. I have no doubt she’d tear me apart with that thing. Fuck, why is it making me hard? It’s gotta be the pain meds. My dick is drunk on codeine and thinks she’s the most beautiful thing we’ve ever seen.
She is the most beautiful thing. Those wide green eyes are locked on me with all the ferocity of a she-wolf. Her curls are tied up in a big bun on her head and her perfect skin is flushed an angry shade of red. It’s splotchy across her chest, down her arms, her thighs.
What the hell? Was she sunbathing in January? It’s like fifty degrees outside.
No, she’s sweaty like she was just working out. Naked?
And then it hits me.
Oh, fuck.
She’s not alone.
I glance over my shoulder, waiting for whatever hotshot she’s here with to come strolling in from the bedrooms looking full of himself and satisfied. I hate him.
“Oh—Ryan,” she says, her voice cracking with relief. But it quickly turns to anger. “You scared the fucking shit out of me,” she shrieks. “How the hell did you get in here? How do you always get in?”
“Through the front door,” I reply, my voice raised to match hers.
“It was locked!”
“I have a key—”
“How?” she cries, tears in her eyes. Fuck, I really did scare her. She’s shaking with it. I’d try to comfort her, but she’s still holding that damn butcher’s knife.
“Jake,” I say simply. “He gave me a key. It’s in my pocket if you want to check,” I add, nodding down to my right front pocket of my grey sweats.
I try to avoid looking at her peaked nipples, but I can’t help it. They’re so pink and perfect. Was Mr. Hotshot touching them? Surely, he got a taste—
Stop.
The anger fades in her eyes, replaced quickly with concern as her gaze settles on my crutches. Then the knife goes clattering down to the counter. “Oh god, what happened to you?”
I’m oddly stung by her unintended dismissal. She doesn’t know. She wasn’t at the game. She didn’t even watch it on TV. Which means she didn’t see the hit. She didn’t see me lying on that ice—
Actually, now I’m glad. I don’t want her seeing me like that.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re not fine,” she retorts. “You’re on crutches, Ryan. What happened?” She steps closer, her nakedness now within my reach.
I grip tighter to the handles of my crutches. “I got clipped during the game,” I explain. “It’s nothing. Just a knee sprain—”
Her eyes go even wider, her brows arching high. “A knee sprain?” She reaches for me. “Let me help you.”
I stiffen, readying myself for the feeling of electric shock that is her touch. “M’fine,” I mumble, not daring to watch her hand glide up my arm.
“Stop saying you’re fine. You look dead on your feet, and you’re swaying like you’re about to fall over. Come sit down on the couch.”
“I’m just tired,” I admit, letting her lead me over to the living room.