“I CAN’T DO THIS,” I hiss into the phone as I stand paralyzed outside Jake’s apartment, staring at his door like it’s the portal to an unknown world. Which, in a way, I guess it is. Because I have no clue what’s waiting for me on the other side. After last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jake took one look at me and barked at me to get out.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mia snaps back. “You’re a professional. You have a job to do. Get in there and do it.”
“Did you see Jake’s face when they loaded him into the ambulance?” I shudder at the memory. I’ve never seen anyone so pale, his skin the color of chalk, his lips pressed into a harsh, thin line, his whiskey-brown eyes squeezed shut. “He was obviously in a lot of pain. I heard one of the EMTs say his shoulder was dislocated. Thanks to me.”
Now I have two things to apologize to him for. I should start a list.
“The only one to blame is the entitled prick who coldcocked him.” Mia pauses, and I can almost picture her lost in thought, twirling a lock of long dark hair around her finger. “And maybe me. If I hadn’t left you alone...”
“Stop. This is not on you. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Usually.
Mia’s dry laugh cuts across the phone line. “Funny how easy it is for you to let me off the hook. Too bad you can’t do the same for yourself.”
She’s got a point. Time for me to pull up my big girl panties and face the music, whether the tune’s “Get Back” or “Let’s Get It On.” Truth be told, I don’t know which one I’m more afraid of hearing.
With my free hand, I pull Jake’s keys out of my bag. “Okay, I’m going in. Wish me luck.”
“Trust me, you’re not gonna need it. That boy’s got it bad for you.”
It’s my turn to laugh now. “You’re dreaming. Or smoking something funny.”
“You’re the one who’s delusional. The guy practically broke the land speed record racing to your rescue.”
“Now you’re making me feel guilty again.”
“Totally not what I intended. I just don’t want you to miss what’s staring you right in the face.”
I hear something crinkle, then what sounds like chewing. Figures. Mia’s always hungry. In law school she’d eat an entire quart of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk after every exam. She was always trying to get me to join in. With my own quart, of course. Sharing hers was out of the question. But unlike her I don’t have the metabolism of a hummingbird.
She takes another bite and speaks through a mouthful of whatever she’s gorging on. “Now quit stalling and go get your man.”
“He’s not...”
The line clicks off, and I let the rest of the sentence trail away. No point protesting to deaf—or AWOL—ears. Stuffing the phone in my bag, I insert the key in the lock, turn it and push the door open a crack.
“Jake? Roscoe?” There’s no answer from man or beast, so I give the door another shove and I take a step inside. “It’s Ainsley. I’m here to walk the dog.”
Still no response. I’m starting to wonder if Jake’s done something stupid like try to take Roscoe out himself when the furry monster pokes his head out of one of the bedrooms and comes lumbering toward me.
“Hey, boy.” I kneel down to rub one of his ears. He likes that. Another of the things I’ve learned about Roscoe in our getting-to-know-you period. “Where’s Jake?”
As if on cue, a loud crash comes from what I assume is the master bedroom at the far end of the loft, followed by a flurry of swears in Jake’s throaty, masculine voice. My brain is instantly swamped with images of him lying on the cold, hard wooden floor in a puddle of blood. Or close to losing consciousness in the tub, his injured arm twisted awkwardly underneath him, the pain too much for him to bear. Don’t most at-home accidents happen in the bathroom?
I jump up and sprint toward the source of the commotion, Roscoe at my heels. But when I burst through the door into Jake’s bedroom, I immediately feel like an intruder. There’s too much of him here. His minty, soapy, supersexy scent. The half-open book he was reading—the latest Jack Reacher mystery—on the nightstand. The imprint of his body on the massive memory foam mattress. What’s nowhere in sight, however, is the man himself.
Another crash and a second barrage of profanity shifts my attention to the master bath. I shove down the feeling that I’m trespassing, drop my purse on the bed and sidle up to the partially open door. Some things are more important than privacy. Like personal welfare.
“Um, Jake,” I call awkwardly through the space between the door and the frame. “It’s Ainsley. Everything okay in there?”
Roscoe, who hasn’t left my side, adds a concerned bark.
“Everything’s fine.” Jake’s voice is clipped, strained. He’s obviously in pain, but too damn stubborn to admit it. Typical tough guy. “Go walk the dog. I don’t want him peeing on my rug. Again.”
I’m about to clap back with a snappy rejoinder—something about how the first time wasn’t my fault—when I hear crash number three, followed by some even more creative swearing.
“Doesn’t sound fine to me.” I grab the doorknob, ready to pull it the rest of the way open. “I’m coming in. Cover your naughty bits.”
“My naughty bits?” He chuckles.
Laughter. That’s got to be a good sign. Still, I’m not leaving without checking on him. “You know what I mean. You’ve got three seconds to hide the family jewels.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want? We could pick up where we left off yesterday.”
No, I’m not sure. But I’m not letting him know that. “That’s a bit cocky, isn’t it? From out here, it doesn’t sound like you’re in any condition to get it on.”
“I’m a man. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Ah, so that’s how that little thing works. Mind over matter.”
“Who are you calling little?” he asks with a laugh, but this time it morphs into a groan.
“That’s it. I’m coming in, whether you’re decent or not.”
I shove the door open and step into the biggest freaking bathroom I’ve ever seen. It’s like a palace, all shiny and sterile and manly with pale gray tile, polished brass fixtures and a rich walnut vanity. A glass shower big enough for a four-person orgy dominates the far wall. It would be a picture fit for Architectural Digest—if it wasn’t for the man slumped against the vanity, with what looks like the contents of one—or two—of the drawers strewn on the floor around him.
The very nearly naked man. Jake’s naughty bits might be covered by the towel loosely tied around his waist, but not much else is. And when I say loosely, I mean that sucker’s hanging on for dear life. At any moment, the poor excuse for a knot could let go.
I stare at the scrap of terrycloth, not sure if I’m willing it to stay up or fall down. I don’t know if I’m ready for Jake in all his fully nude glory. My poor, palpitating heart can hardly handle what I’m seeing now. The guy’s like the poster child for masculine perfection. Firmly muscled biceps. Broad chest with just the right amount of fine, dark hair. Washboard abs. My fingers itch to trace their ridges and valleys before following his happy trail down his abdomen, to his belly button, and under that damn towel to his...
Stop. This is your friend’s brother. And your client. You came in here to make sure he wasn’t in mortal peril, not ogle him like a side of Kobe beef.
I tamp down my runaway sex drive and close the door behind me, making sure Roscoe’s on the other side. He whines for a hot second, then I hear his nails tapping on the floor as he trots off, hopefully not to pee on Jake’s precious carpet. But I can’t worry about that now, not when Jake’s obviously hurting.
I cross to him, stepping over and around all the crap on the floor. Up close, I notice a bloody scrap of tissue stuck to one cheek. It should send his sex appeal into a nosedive, but instead it somehow increases it tenfold. I try my best to ignore the flash flood of lust coursing through my veins and wave a hand at the mess at his feet. “You call this fine?”
He glares at the contraption on his right arm. “This stupid fucking sling is making everything difficult. Why couldn’t I have landed on my left shoulder?”
“Here.” I bend and start picking stuff up. Toothbrush. Razor. Hair gel.
He snatches a tube of shaving cream from my fingers with his good hand. “I can do that.”
“Can you?” He bristles at the jibe, and I decide to change tack. Like my mother always says, you get more flies with sugar than vinegar. I don’t usually pay much attention to her pearls of so-called wisdom, but in this case, she might be on to something.
I dump the toiletries in the open drawer and lay a palm on Jake’s good shoulder. “I get it. You’re frustrated. You’re used to doing things for yourself. But it’s okay to ask for help once in a while. Especially when you’re hurt.”
He stares at the tube of shaving cream in his hand. “It’s humiliating. I’m a grown-ass man, and I can’t even shave myself.”
I pat the toilet seat. “Sit. I’ll do it.”
His gaze shoots to mine. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” I retrieve the razor from the drawer and hold it aloft like it’s the sword of Gryffindor.
“You look like Sweeney freaking Todd.” He eyes me skeptically but lowers himself gently onto the toilet, peeling the tissue off his cheek and tossing it into the garbage. “I’m not sure I should let you near my face with a sharp object.”
“Sondheim?” My lips curl into a smile. “I’m impressed.”
“You can’t grow up with a theater geek without a little of it rubbing off on you, no matter how much you resist.”
He smiles back, and my heart, which had almost regained its normal rhythm, starts racing like an Indy car again. It’s those damn dimples. They should be illegal.
I hold out my hand for the shaving cream, and his fingers brush mine as he places it in my palm. A zing of awareness buzzes from the point of contact straight to my girly parts.
Great. Now my heart and my hormones are out of control. This is going to be harder than I thought. I’m trembling inside and out, anticipation of what I’m about to do making me shiver. I’m going to wind up either cutting him or kissing him.
Maybe both.
But it’s too late to back out now. I’ll have to take my chances and hope for the best. Whatever that is.
I set the razor down on the vanity and squirt a dollop of shaving cream into my palm, rubbing my hands together to work up a lather. “Sit still.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a smirk.
But the smirk disappears when my hands cup his cheeks. He sucks in a breath that echoes in the cavernous room as I spread the cool, sweet-smelling foam on the lower half of his face. His skin is hot under my hands, his stubble tickles my palms and I don’t know how long I can last without giving in to temptation, climbing into his lap and planting a kiss on those full, firm lips.
After a few seconds of torture, I stand back to admire my handiwork and reach for the razor.
“Are you ready?” I ask shakily.
“Are you?”
His eyes meet mine, and the raw, carnal need I see in their chocolate depths stuns me to the core. I’m almost positive it’s reflected back in my own. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. If you don’t count yesterday in his kitchen.
“Sit still,” I pant. I’m having trouble catching my breath. You’d think I just finished a triathlon.
“You said that already.”
“R-right.” I stammer. “I just don’t want to cut you. You’ve been injured enough for one twenty-four-hour period.”
“You won’t.” He takes my free hand in his and squeezes. I expect him to release it, but he laces his fingers with mine and holds tight, his thumb tracing distracting patterns on the back of my hand.
I lean against the vanity to steady myself and lift the razor to his face, running it slowly, carefully down one cheek. For the next few minutes, the only sounds in the bathroom are the soft scrape of the blade and our increasingly ragged breathing. It’s the most intimate, sensual, erotic thing I’ve ever done. Counting yesterday in his kitchen.
“Turn your head,” I order when the side of his face closest to me is clean-shaven.
He does, but on the way around his gaze snags mine again, piercing me with white-hot shards of desire. “I’m starting to think dislocating my shoulder is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Nightingale.”
“Nightingale?” I’ve been called a lot of things but a bird known for its powerful and beautiful song isn’t one of them. I’m guessing that’s because I’m tone deaf. The only thing you’ll catch me singing is “Love Shack” on the occasional karaoke night with the gals in my darts league, and that’s only after a minimum of two drinks and a whole lot of prodding from my posse.
“As in Florence,” Jake explains, mischief waring with the desire in his dark eyes. “My own personal, private duty nurse.”
“Executive concierge,” I correct, my voice so thick with need I barely recognize it.
Tentatively, I rinse the razor, then silently slide it down his stubbled cheek. The air between us is hot and heavy with sexual tension as I continue the process—rinse, scrape, rinse, scrape—until his skin is smooth.
“There.” I trade the razor for a towel and hand it to him. “All done.”
“Not quite.” He pats his face dry and tosses the towel into the sink.
“Do you need my help with something else?”
“You could say that.”
He stands, and I try but can’t suppress a little gasp at the huge erection tenting the towel still miraculously clinging to his waist.
“So you see the problem.”
I’d have to be blind not to.
He hooks a thumb under the towel, and it slips down a little lower. Seriously, at this point it has to be divine intervention holding that thing up.
“Any idea what to do about it?” he asks, his voice as rough and needy as mine.
Oh, I’ve got a few. All of them delicious and dirty. The question is, will I stick around long enough to do any of them? Or am I going to chicken out and run away?
Again.
He must sense my hesitation, because his expression gets all serious and he takes a step back, putting some space between us. “Look, I don’t want to pressure you. But unless I’m way off base, I’m not the only one who’s horny as hell right now.”
I think about lying. But he’s not blind, either, and my body’s telling a different story. I glance down at my chest. My nipples are practically poking holes through my Keep Calm and Be a Unicorn T-shirt. There’s no way he’s missing that.
“You’re not way off base,” I rasp. “But...”
He closes the gap between us and touches a finger to my lips, silencing me. “If there’s one word I hate almost as much as no, it’s but. We’re two consenting adults who want to jump each other’s bones. What’s wrong with that?”
I shoot a worried glance at his sling. “What about your shoulder?”
“The last time I checked, that’s not the appendage I need for what I have in mind.”
As if to prove his point, he uses his good arm to pull me to him, the evidence of his arousal pressing against my belly. I let myself relax into him, my reasons for resisting becoming dimmer and dimmer by the second.
“Does that mean what I think it means?” he asks, the hand on my back dropping down to cup my ass.
“That depends.” I’m hot everywhere, the ache between my legs sharpening into a persistent, almost painful throbbing. “What do you think it means?”
“I think it means you want me to do this.”
But before I can find out what “this” is, the tinny tones of Men at Work’s “Who Can It Be Now” ring out from the bedroom, making me tense in his arms.
Or, more accurately, arm.
“Shit. My cell phone.”
“Ignore it,” he growls, splaying his fingers across my ass cheek and squeezing.
“I can’t. It might be work.” The second the words are out of my mouth, I want to suck them back in. When I left DK&G, I swore I was done letting my job control my life. But I should have walked Roscoe and been back at the office—aka my apartment—for our morning meeting by now. Aaron and Erin are probably camped out in the hallway outside my door, picturing me lying in the gutter somewhere.
Reluctantly—and gently, being careful not to jar his injured shoulder—I worm my way out of Jake’s embrace and make a beeline for my purse, managing to fish out my phone and swipe the screen to answer before it stops ringing.
“Hey, Aaron. Or Erin. Sorry I’m late. I got held up with Roscoe. But I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Held up?” Jake mutters with a smug smile as he breezes by me on his way to the dresser. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
I wave him off with my phone-free hand, using all my Jedi mind powers to brainwash him into keeping his big mouth shut. If my coworkers find out I’ve been playing house with him, I’ll never hear the end of it.
He yanks a pair of boxer briefs from one of the dresser drawers, and I turn my attention back to the phone. Sure, I’m tempted to watch him drop the towel so he can get dressed. What woman with a pulse and half a brain wouldn’t be? But I’m afraid the sight will render me speechless, and then Aaron—or Erin—will definitely think I’ve gone off the deep end.
“Why don’t you guys go to the Starbucks on the corner and get a couple of lattes,” I suggest. “On me. I’ll text you when I get off the subway at 28th Street.”
That ought to keep them happy. I grab my purse from the bed, ready to make yet another quick exit. It’s becoming a pattern with us. At this rate, I should just have little sympathy notes printed up. Sorry for giving you a case of the blue balls, Jake. Better luck next time.
“Thanks for the offer,” the voice on the other end of the phone says. “But seeing as I’m almost three thousand miles away in San Diego, I’ll have to pass.”
“Brie.”
Shit. I was in such a hurry to answer, I didn’t bother to check the screen before I swiped right, just assuming it was one of the Aarons. Or is it Erins? Whatever. The point is, if I had seen it was Jake’s sister, I would have let the call go to voicemail. It’s majorly uncomfortable trying to have a casual conversation with her brother in my peripheral vision, wearing only those damn boxer briefs. The way they hug his tight ass and muscular thighs...
Damn.
Nevertheless, I persist.
“Hey, girl.” My voice sounds unnaturally high, even to my ears. I clear my throat and make a conscious effort to sound less like Minnie Mouse on helium. “How’s things on the West Coast?”
Jake catches my eye and mouths, “My sister?”
I nod.
“Are you okay?” Brie asks, completely bypassing my question. “You sound funny. Like you’re at the bottom of a well or something.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just busy. Lots of errands on the schedule today.”
“Well, I hope you have time to squeeze in one more as a favor to a friend. Have you walked Roscoe yet today?”
“No...” I hedge. “I’m, uh, on my way there now.”
“Good. I’m worried about my brother. Connor told me he got hurt last night.”
“You talked to Connor?” My gaze flicks to Jake, who’s struggling to pull on a pair of sweatpants one-handed.
“Shit,” he mutters.
I hold the phone away from my mouth. “He told Brie about your...accident.”
Jake scrubs a hand over his freshly shaved jaw. “I should have known he couldn’t keep his trap shut. I didn’t want her to worry about me.”
“Are you still there?” Brie asks as I bring the phone back up to my face.
“I’m here,” I assure her. “What do you want me to do?”
I know what I want to do. Jake. But I doubt that’s what his sister has in mind.
“I’ve been trying to reach him, but he’s not answering his phone. Can you check on him for me? Make sure he’s okay on his own? Connor said the doctor recommended someone stay with him for a few days until his shoulder was feeling stronger, but my brother, in typical alpha male fashion, nixed that idea. Connor even offered to get him a home health aide, but he said he didn’t want some stranger in his space.”
I look over at him. He’s sitting on the corner of the bed, fighting to get a T-shirt on over his sling. Stubborn idiot. “Yeah, that sounds like Jake.”
“What sounds like me?” he asks through the shirt that’s now covering his face.
“Tell you what.” I speak into the phone, ignoring him. “I’ll do better than that.”
What I’m about to propose is either the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had or the most dangerous. Or both. I take a deep breath and plunge forward.
“I’m not a stranger. I’ll stay with him.”