When I'm Gone (Rosemary Beach #11)(4)

I had reached up with a cloth to begin scrubbing the windows from top to bottom when my cell phone rang. Crap! I always put the ringer on high when I was working so I could hear it around the house. I scrambled to get down, but my foot slipped. I winced in pain just before the chair turned over, and my arms shot out to grab for the closest thing next to me. A massive, ornate mirror.

The sound of breaking glass came just before my butt hit the floor with a resounding thud.

And my stupid cell phone was still blaring at top volume.

I turned and desperately reached for my phone but couldn’t grab it. The loud ringing continued as I wiggled over to it, my legs all twisted up.

The door swung open, and I froze in place.

Here I sat, with shattered glass all around me and an upturned chair. The only bright spot was that my phone had finally stopped ringing.

“What the hell happened? Are you OK?” he asked, as he stalked toward me in a pair of white boxer briefs. At least he wasn’t totally naked. I jerked my eyes away from him and his almost-naked body and sucked in a breath. I’d broken his mirror and woken him up again.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll pay you back for the mirror. I know it probably costs a lot, but you don’t have to pay me until it’s covered. I’ll even come in more than once a week for free.”

He frowned, and my stomach dropped. He wasn’t happy. “Are you bleeding? Shit, give me your hand.”

He dropped to his knees and took my left hand in his. Sure enough, there was a piece of glass in it, and blood was slowly trickling out around the shard.

“You’re gonna need stitches. Let me put on some clothes, and I’ll take you to the hospital,” he said, standing back up and heading for the door.

I stared down at the glass and back up at the door. He was taking me to get stitches. For this? If my cleaning agency found out, they would fire me themselves. I couldn’t let him make a big deal out of it. I just needed some peroxide and something to wrap it up. Then I would clean up the mess I’d made.

I stood up and winced from the pain in my backside. I was going to have a bruise for sure. I dusted off the few slivers of glass still clinging to my clothes, but they opened up tiny cuts in my fingers. The blood that smeared down my legs only made things look worse than they were.

I eased out of the wreckage I had created. Once I was sure I wasn’t trailing any pieces of glass after me, I found a clean cloth in my basket, then went to the nearest bathroom to the right of the game room, wet the cloth, and cleaned up my legs.

“What are you doing?” His voice sounded mad.

I jerked my head up and backed away as he filled the doorway of the bathroom. My foot was up on the closed toilet seat lid, and I immediately dropped it back to the floor. “I’m sorry I’m barefoot. I was going to clean the toilet lid once I was done.”

His frown grew. Crap. I wasn’t making this better.

“I don’t care about the f*cking toilet. Why didn’t you wait for me to help you up? You could have stepped in more glass.”

What? This time I frowned. I wasn’t understanding him. “I was careful,” I replied, still not sure what had him upset.

“Come on. I’m going to pull that glass out and clean the wound and wrap it before we leave. You can’t keep it in there. It could get infected.”

“OK,” I replied, afraid to tell him no. He was obviously intent on helping me.

He turned and started walking out, so I followed him. I only glanced down once at his bottom, and that was only because I was curious about what his backside looked like in those jeans he was wearing. It was just as impressive as his front. Those jeans fit nicely.

I sent my gaze up his back and noticed for the first time that he had a ponytail. His hair wasn’t that long, but it seemed at least to hit his shoulders. I hadn’t allowed myself to look at him enough to notice. His eyes and strong jawline had taken all my attention before.

We reached his bedroom door, and he stood back and waved me inside. “I have no idea where Nan keeps her first-aid supplies, but I’ve got some in my duffel. I’m doctoring a fall from a horse I’m breaking, so I came prepared.”

Nan? Who was Nan? “Do you not live here?” I asked.

He pulled out a small blue pouch from his camouflage duffel bag and turned to look back at me. A grin lifted the corners of his mouth, and his eyes danced with amusement. “Hell, no.” He chuckled. “Have you met Nannette? No one willingly lives with her. But since our father owns this house, I can stay here whenever I choose. I just choose to do so when Nan is gone.”

“Oh. I’ve never seen anyone here until you,” I said.

“That explains a lot,” he mumbled, then chuckled as if he knew a joke I didn’t. He held out his hand. “Here, give me your hand. I will be as gentle as I can, but this is gonna sting.”

I didn’t let men touch me. But something about the concerned way he was studying my palm made me trust him. He was a nice guy, or he seemed to be a nice guy. He wasn’t looking at me in ways that made me nervous.

I placed my hand palm up in his, and he glanced up at me apologetically, as if it was his fault. I watched as he slowly slid the glass out of my palm and then began dotting it with a cotton ball he’d coated in peroxide. Yes, it stung, but I’d been through much worse.

He bent his head and started gently blowing on my wound as he cleaned it. The cool feel of his breath on my skin eased the sting, and I became fascinated with the way his lips looked puckered up. Was he for real? Had I hit my head when I fell? Was this some strange dream?