Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(45)

Sofie swiveled her head to find Gertie smiling and panting up at her, tail wagging. Before she could breathe a sigh of relief she hadn’t fallen off the ladder, Sofie noticed paint sinking into the grooves of the ornate, hand-carved, antique door frame.

“Oh no.” She pulled her shirtsleeve over her hand and wiped frantically at the smudge, all while trying to stay balanced on the ladder and not spill her paint.

“Of course I’d ruin it at the end,” she grumbled. Not like she could replace the molding by making a quick trip to Lowe’s. This particular feature had come with the house.

She nearly had it, all she needed to do was lean a little farther out on the ladder to scrub a spot just out of reach…

The ladder tipped. And this time, Sofie couldn’t prevent the fall.





Donovan took a slug of his beer and headed for the dining room. He was going to tell Sofie to wrap things up or else he was going to grab a paintbrush and finish for her. He got that she wanted to do this on her own, but there was no way he could stand by while—

At the threshold, he stopped cold. The ladder rocked, Sofie on it, and before he could think, he’d slammed his beer bottle onto the dining room table and rushed to her. He caught her a millisecond later, his hands grasping her hips. The bowl of paint and the brush glanced off him. He barely noticed. His mind was more on her and the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream than on paint stains.

She grappled onto the top step of the ladder, backing her ass—her incredibly fine, round ass—directly into the center of his chest. He blew out a breath, teeth wedged together, hands still on her hips.

“What the hell are you doing?” Vaguely, he became aware of paint oozing down his arm.

“Let go of me!” She straightened, but he kept his hold tight. In a different scenario, he might enjoy her ass in his face. But her almost falling to her death and/or dismemberment pushed every ounce of lust from his brain.

“Not a chance. Not ’til you’re down safely.”

“I don’t need your help.” She glared over her shoulder at him. “I would’ve had it.”

“And by ‘it’ you mean a concussion?” He let her go but stayed close in case she slipped again. “That’s all you would’ve had if I didn’t save your ass.”

Her eyelids narrowed to slits. “Which you had no problem grasping with both hands, I noticed.”

“That doesn’t sound like a complaint,” he growled. Not a single part of her, from top to toenails, had recoiled from him.

She stepped down a rung, then two, but he kept his hands firmly on the rungs. Denim-covered thighs brushed his forearms. Still, she didn’t try to escape him.

“You’re in this house, Scampi, you exercise safety,” he said, his voice raising despite her proximity. “You do not climb six goddamn feet into the air and risk a brain injury to paint the wall. I’m a foot taller than you are. Ask me.”

“Ask you?” she snapped, taking another step down.

He kept her caged with his arms until she put one foot solidly on the ground. Then and only then did he let go of the ladder.

“You, who has been oh-so-approachable.”

Fair point. Not that he’d admit it.

“I need a wet cloth and paint thinner.” She left the ladder to poke around in her supplies.

“Leave it.”

She ignored him and continued rummaging. “Do you have paint thinner?”

“Scampi, leave it.”

“You don’t understand. There is paint on the molding and if I don’t clean it off it will—”

“It’s not a big deal.” He could feel a headache forming over his right eye.

“I want it to be perfect.”

He rubbed the spot with two fingers.

“Are you sure there’s not a container in the basement?”

“It’s just a f*cking house!” he bellowed, gesturing with one hand at the door frame. “I don’t give a shit about the molding!”

Dog lowered her head and skulked out of the room. He could feel badly about yelling later. Right now, he needed Sofie to listen to him.

She spun to face him, a look of alarm in her rounded green eyes. If he worried he’d scared her, he didn’t need to. She looked pissed. Hands propped on her hips, she cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t give a shit about the molding,” he repeated. Calmly this time. “You know why I don’t give a shit about the molding?”

“Because you don’t give a shit about anything?”

Now? Now she was giving him hell?

He unclenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and then blew it out through his nose. “When I was nine…”

He swallowed past the bitterness in his throat. Not wanting to finish, but needing her to know the truth. The same way he’d needed Caroline to know the truth that long-ago night in the cottage. Needing to tell this story for the first time out loud. Needing to get it out. Let it out.

Straight through.

Taking another breath, he started again. “When I was nine, I had a rust orange 1972 Impala Hot Wheels. My favorite car.”

He looked past Sofie at the chair railing running along three walls in the room, his gut churning with acid and stale fear that had no place in him anymore.