Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Touching me.
Okay, so he’s not exactly touching me in the way I’ve imagined, but right now, his hands—those strong, masculine, capable hands of his—are cradling my injured leg.
“How did you get this injury?”
“It’s just a scrape,” I tell him, trying to ignore the way I shake when he touches me. “I wouldn’t exactly say it’s an injury.”
A sharp look makes me snap my mouth shut.
Okay, it’s an injury.
“I fell when I was running,” I tell him truthfully. Running for my life, convinced I was being followed, determined to survive.
“You ripped both knees and tore up your hands from one fall?”
I look down. For some reason, I’m ashamed, like I’m a clumsy child.
“It was… a few times,” I say honestly. I look away. My cheeks heat with embarrassment.
“Savannah.”
I’ve never heard his voice so gentle, yet he still holds the command of a man that’s used to getting his way. I don’t know what he does for work, but I would imagine it has literally nothing to do with doing what anyone else tells him to do.
“Yes?” I whisper.
He smells so good. All virile and masculine. I’m not sure if it’s aftershave or bodywash or cologne, but I want to continue to sit here just so I can inhale deep lungfuls of him.
When he cradles my injured leg, he flicks away the fabric from the wound with his thumb. A thread gets caught in the torn shreds of my skin. I gasp and draw in a quick breath at the sudden sharp stab of pain.
“You’ve got bits of fabric embedded in the skin,” he says with a scowl.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure why.
He looks back up at me. “Savannah,” he says sternly, that scowl between his brows making my heart go pitter-patter. There’s my name again. My mind somehow short-circuits when he says my name.
Goddammit, I need to get a grip.
“Do not apologize. You were not the one who caused this.” I have the strange and sudden desire to say yes, sir.
“You look angry.”
Still holding my leg, his dark blue gaze meets mine. “I’m fucking furious, but not at you.”
I nod and swallow, unsure of how to respond. I’ve never heard him string together so many words at once. He’s a man of few words, dark and mysterious, and sometimes brooding.
We don’t speak again while he treats my wounds.
I’m caught halfway between observing every detail of my interaction with Thayer—he’s touching me—and reliving the shocking events of the night.
Someone’s life was taken tonight. Someone who woke up this morning and likely ate breakfast with his family and fully anticipated coming home this evening, lies cold and lifeless. He was a man of the law. A uniformed officer. Someone who dedicated his life to justice, who provided safety to the vulnerable.
And now he’s dead.
That quickly. One minute he was breathing, his heart beating, his body alive and vibrant. The next… he was gone.
I didn’t even know him, yet I still feel a sudden rush of tears.
“Did that hurt?” Thayer’s dark eyebrows knit in concern.
“Did what hurt?” I ask stupidly, my mind still turning over the details of a life taken so suddenly.
Thayer blinks. “The antiseptic.” I look down to see my jeans damp with some kind of liquid he’s clumsily poured over my wound. Nothing about Thayer is haphazard, so I’m surprised to see he spilled it at all. He’s usually such a perfectionist.
“Here, let me. I can do it,” I say, reaching for the cotton pad and small bottle of antiseptic. The slanting frown between his brows tells me that’s not an option and he pauses only long enough to give me a cold, hard stare.
The collar of his shirt is open at the neck, revealing a hint of dark curls. I shiver and turn away, aware that I am having very inappropriate thoughts about a man who might as well be my brother.
My very much older brother, I remind myself.
But while he dabs the liquid on another clean cotton pad, I lean down to look at my injuries. He smells like fresh air, pine, and cedar with a little spice.
I realize he’s talking to me.
“What?” I say, pretending that I’m not indulging in schoolgirl fantasies but maybe I’m a little traumatized.
I begin to shake when I remember what happened again. I close my eyes against a rush of anxiety that sends nausea swirling in my belly. I swallow and look at him.
“I said,” he begins, holding my gaze for a little too long. I squirm. “It would be a lot easier to tend to these wounds if you removed your pants.”
I blink as if I don’t understand him.
“Is that the best pick-up line you could muster?”
I can’t believe I just said that.
He narrows his eyes at me.
“Okay, so yeah, it probably would help, but I’m not crazy about… about removing my clothing,” I say in a whisper. I look wildly around the room for something that will get me out of this situation, because I am so not taking off my pants in the middle of the Gerard family living room.