Slammed (Slammed #1)(4)

The jackets are nowhere to be found. Septembers in Texas rarely call for jackets. I grab the keys and decide I'll just have to make a mad dash to the jeep. I open the front door and some sort of white substance is all over the yard. It takes me a second to realize what it is. Snow? In September? I bend down and scoop some up in my hands and examine it. It doesn't snow that often in Texas, but when it does it isn't this kind of snow. Texas snow is more like miniscule pieces of rock-hard hail. Michigan snow is just how I imagined real snow would be: fluffy, soft, and cold! I quickly drop the snow and dry my hands on my sweatshirt as I head toward the jeep.

I don't make it far. The second my Darth Vader house shoes meet the snow dusted concrete, I'm no longer looking at the jeep in front of me. I'm flat on my back, staring up at the clear blue sky. I immediately feel the pain in my right shoulder and realize I've landed on something hard. I reach around and pull a concrete garden gnome out from beneath me, half of his red hat broken off and shattered into pieces. He's smirking at me. I groan and raise the gnome with my good arm and pull it back, preparing to chuck the thing, when someone stops me.

"That's not a good idea!"

I immediately recognize Will’s voice. His voice is smooth and soothing like my father’s was, but at the same time had an authoritative edge to it. I sit upright and see Will walking up the driveway toward me.

"Are you okay?" he laughs.

Oh, no. I haven't even looked in the mirror this morning. I'm immediately embarrassed, but do my best to appear anything but.

"I'll feel a lot better after I bust this damn thing," I say, trying to pull myself up with no success.

"You don't want to do that, gnomes are good luck," he says as he reaches me. He takes the gnome out of my hands and gently places it on the snow covered grass.

"Yeah," I reply sarcastically as I take in the gash on my shoulder that has now formed a bright red circle on my sweater sleeve. "Real good luck."

Will stops laughing when he sees the blood on my shirt. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have laughed if I knew you were hurt." He bends over and takes my uninjured arm and pulls me up. "You need to get a bandage on that."

"I wouldn't have a clue where to find one at this point," I reply, referring to the mounds of unopened boxes we have yet to unpack.

"You'll have to walk with me. There’s some in our kitchen."

He removes his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders, holding onto my arm as he walks me across the street. I feel a little pathetic with him assisting me-I can walk on my own. I don't object though, and I feel hypocritical to the entire feminist movement. I've regressed to the damsel in distress.

I remove his jacket and lay it across the back of the couch as I follow him into the kitchen. It's still dark inside so I assume everyone is still asleep. His house is more spacious than ours. The open floor plans are similar but the living room seems to be a few feet larger. There's a bay window to the left of the living room with a sitting bench and large pillows.

Several family pictures hang along the wall opposite the kitchen. Most of them are of Will and his little brother with a few pictures that include his parents.

I walk over to inspect the pictures as Will looks for a bandage. They must have gotten their genes from their dad. In the most recent picture, which still looks a few years dated, his dad has his arms around the two boys and he's squeezing them together for an impromptu photo. His jet black hair is speckled with gray and a thick black moustache outlines his huge smile. His features are identical to Will's. They both have eyes that smile when they laugh, exposing perfect white teeth.

Will’s mother is breathtaking. She has long blond hair and, from the pictures at least, looks tall. I can’t pick out any facial features of hers that were passed on to her boys. Maybe Will has her personality. All of the pictures on the wall prove one big difference between our houses-this one is a home.

I walk into the kitchen and take a seat at the bar.

"It needs to be cleaned before you put the bandage on it," he says as he rolls up his shirt sleeves and turns on the faucet. He’s wearing a pale yellow button-up collared shirt that is slightly transparent under the kitchen lights, revealing the outline of his undershirt. He has broad shoulders and his sleeves are snug around the muscles in his arms. The top of his head meets the cabinet above him and I estimate from the similarities in our kitchens that he stands about six inches taller than me. I’m staring at the pattern on his black tie that’s flipped over his shoulder in an attempt to avoid getting it wet, when he turns the water off and walks back to the bar. I feel my face flush as I grab the wet napkin out of his hands, not proud of the amount of attention his physique is getting from me.

"It's fine," I say as I pull my sleeve down over my shoulder. "I can get it."

He opens a bandage as I wipe the blood off the wound. "So, what were you doing outside in your pajamas at seven o'clock in the morning?" he asks. "Are you guys still unloading?"

I shake my head and lean over and throw the napkin into the trash can. "Coffee."

"Coffee? I guess you aren't a morning person." Will says this as more of a statement than a question.

As he moves in closer to place the bandage on my shoulder, I can feel his breath on my neck. I rub my arms to hide the chills that are creeping up them. He adheres it to my shoulder and pats it.