No Perfect Hero(40)

Like that burn when you lean against sun-warmed wood or leather, and it’s just a little too hot but it’s absolutely perfect, too, and you just want to soak it all in. I didn’t realize he could be so amazing.

So gentle.

He was so sweet with me that night. Tucking me into bed, fetching me clothing, letting me keep my decency and my dignity, making sure I wouldn’t wake up with a crappy hangover.

I still feel his arms around me, how thick and strong they were, how he made me feel like I was floating and lifting away, and it had nothing to do with the beer.

Oh, God.

I can’t actually be letting that dick get under my skin.

Can I?

He was just being a decent human being. Nothing more. He did what anyone would do with some drunk stranger lolling all over them.

It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean we're friends. It surely doesn't mean he’s not a complete and utter jerkface.

“Auntie Hay!”

Tara’s shrill voice rips over the duplex, tearing me from silly thoughts.

My heart drops out and practically goes bouncing across the floor.

I don’t remember standing.

I barely register the barstool nearly toppling over. I just know I’m on my feet, racing out the door like my heels have wings, terror turning my blood into something thin and cold as I race toward the sound of my niece’s screams.

“Tara?! What happened? Baby, what's wrong–”

I draw up short as I see her standing on the edge of the front porch.

She’s fine, I realize with a quick once-over. No bruises, no blood, not even dirtied, but she’s crying over something that's moving in her arms.

Whatever I expect, it isn't her holding that orange tabby like her dear life depends on it, while the cat makes disgruntled, deep rrrring sounds that may mean anything from I’m not feeling so well to I’m about to claw your face off and wear it as a jacket.

Breathlessly, I stumble to a halt, clutching at my chest. “What happened? Tara, what’s wrong?”

Tara sniffles, then rubs her face dry on Mozart’s fur.

“Mozart’s hurt,” she mumbles. “I found him and he was limping!”

Oh, God. She nearly gave me a heart attack, but I can’t help my worry shooting to the poor cat, too.

“Here,” I say, reaching for him. “Let me have a look.”

Reluctantly, Tara hands the beast over.

He’s almost bobcat-sized, far too big for her little grip, but I’m able to cradle him a bit more carefully in my arms. The fact that he lets me is worrisome...

He's always been rather prideful, coming in as if he rules the roost and only deigns to let us humans occupy his space. That he’s so docile today is troubling.

But I figure out why pretty fast. I'm checking his paws, murmuring to him and scratching his belly in between, when I see it.

One paw looks bloodied, like something bit down on it.

Frowning, my heart aches as I gently try to peek at the damage to his paw pad while he makes pained, terribly sad little mewls and flinches away.

“Come on, little guy,” I murmur, coaxing him with nuzzles between his pointed ears. “I just want to look so I can help you.”

“Did...did someone hurt him?” Tara asks, her eyes streaming. “Auntie Hay, who would do that to him?”

A chill runs up my spine because I just don't know.

Whatever did this – person, animal, accident – it isn't good.

“I don’t know, sweetie, but there’s got to be a vet in town. We can ask Ms. Wilma if—”

“You don’t need to ask Wilma anything,” comes a gruff voice at my back. Warren.

I haven’t heard him in days. It's so sudden and startling that the deep rumble of his voice seems to shake through me like an earthquake. I glance back, and he’s leaning out of his doorway, half asleep and rumpled, and it’s not hard to tell he slept in his clothes. Just raising nagging questions like who he is and what he’s doing and what secrets he’s keeping today.

“We have to do something,” I say through clenched teeth. “He's really hurt and I don't know if–”

“Hay.”

For a second, we share a glare. A gaze that says too much. Mostly, it's the same stark plea turning over and over in his midnight-blue pools.

Trust me.

Trust me this time.

Trust me to fix this like I fixed you that night.

I want to. But right now, I can’t think about all the trust issues with this whirlwind mountain man.

Not when there’s a big mewling baby bawling in my arms and Warren steps out on the porch to tug his boots on. “I know just the man. Grab a blanket, wrap the cat up, and let’s go.”





*



Once again, Warren comes to my rescue.

Well, technically this time it’s Mozart’s rescue, but once again I get to see another side to him.

After a breakneck drive through town with Tara sandwiched between us in the front seat of his truck and Mozart swaddled in her lap like a baby, Warren gently takes the cat from her. I watch him hold the furball in the crook of his arm, murmuring a soothing word or two under his breath as he scratches under the cat’s chin and then elbows open the door to a small, nondescript building.