Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 179(@200wpm)___ 143(@250wpm)___ 119(@300wpm)
“Take a seat, let’s take care of that knee,” he releases my hand then drops my bag with a thud on a sturdy, square kitchen table with four matching chairs that looks gorgeously hand carved. Then he marches off to the cupboards, tugging one open and pulling out a first aid kit. When he turns back around, his brows draw tight. “I said, take a seat.”
“I’m fine. I’m here to take care of your wound, remember?”
“And I don’t need a nurse. Didn’t ask for one.”
“Medical assistant,” I mutter, unzipping my bag and digging inside. “And your doctor sent me. He said you’ve been ignoring follow-up care for two weeks.”
His jaw flexes. “Okay, here’s the deal. I take care of your knee, I’ll let you take care of my ass.”
I huff, but only because his protectiveness is starting to get under my skin. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes, pointing at the seat next to me, and reluctantly, but gladly, I sit, because my knee is honestly stinging like it took a shot from a bionic bumble bee. “Scrubs. Off.”
“Excuse me?” Heat explodes across my cheeks and down my chest.
“How am I going to get at that knee with those pants in the way?”
It takes me a moment. Then it dawns on me. “No.” I’m on my feet again. “Absolutely not. I’ll deal with the cut when I get home and—”
“Sit. The fuck. Down.” His voice sucks the rest of the argument from my throat . My butt hits the chair again, my thumbs hook into the elastic waistband of my scrubs while I say a silent prayer that I don’t spontaneously combust and burn this nice little cabin to the ground with us inside. “Good girl,” he rumbles as he lowers himself into a man crouch in front of me, eyes fixed between my legs as I wiggle my pants down just below my knees and press my thighs together, trying to hide the wet spot on the front of my practical beige panties.
And I swear his nostrils flare on a solid inhale, like he’s just caught the scent of breakfast in the morning.
He takes his time, cleaning the wound with a care I’d never have expected from a man like Colt. He grumbles a few times, muttering something about fucking gravel, and making plans to replace the whole path with the paving stones.
Then he’s done, his jaw is set hard, nodding toward my pants gathered at the tops of my calves.
“You can pull those up.” He slow glances upward, catching mine for an impossibly long pause before finishing with, “If you want.”
What I want is to climb this man like he’s got a tree fort filled with snacks at the top, but instead, I tug my lips into a tight smile and pull my dignity back up around my waist. He pushes back up, standing straight, stepping back to the kitchen as I exhale toward the ceiling. He puts the first aid kit back, then immediately before I can fully recover, shrugs out of his flannel and tosses it aside.
Jesus, that chest. It’s a freakin’ religion.
A cult.
I’d drink that Kool-aid any day of the week and three times on Sunday. I don’t have the strength nor the will to tell him he didn’t have to take off his shirt.
His biceps are a study in perfect male anatomy. Bulging, but in that ‘I’ve been chopping wood and carrying Oak trees since I was five’ sort of way. And don’t even get me started on his chest.
I note the scars. More than three, less than ten that I can see. One is distinctive. A burn. Deep, too, which darkens the moment as I push away the crackling memory of something I wish I could forget.
But there, among the wreckage of the scars, is a heart. Inked over his left pec with a ragged crack down the middle.
Did a woman inspire that? And why does that thought give me a pang of jealousy?
“Problem?” he asks as he closes the space between us.
He knows exactly what I’m looking at.
“No,” I lie, tugging on a pair of blue latex gloves with a snap, snap. “Where can you lay down?” I glance around the warm, masculine space. “Face down, I need to get to…the wound.”
He nods on a silent snort. “Right.”
He takes three long strides to a brown leather couch.
With his back to me, his arms bend, hands working in front of him, then God, he tugs down his jeans exposing plaid cotton boxers.
Lumberboxers I think because he may be the sheriff but every fantasy I’m entertaining has him swinging an ax and showing me all the ways he works with hard wood.
I’m zero chill as he stretches out on his stomach, long, masculine fingers hook into the elastic of the boxers and tug.
“You got enough room to work?” He turns his head, slowly blinking until I nod using all my willpower to keep my tongue inside my mouth. “Well, I’m waiting.”