Bound for Me (Be for Me #4)(4)

“I didn’t need to.”

“Three on one?” She lifted her eyebrows. What, he burned them with his laser vision or something?

“You’re not afraid to get rid of them on your own.” His mouth curved into a wry smile. “I saw you take him down the other night when he tried to light up. You didn’t want any help then, and you still don’t want any help now.”

He’d been here that night?

Savannah thought back. She’d been so amped with adrenalin, so sick of that guy’s leering and obnoxious behavior, she’d barely noticed anyone else when she’d fought fire with fire.

But now she remembered. This guy had stood just to the side, staring until the other man had left the premises. He’d offered, but she’d told him she didn’t need his help.

She hadn’t. She’d played it close to the wire though. Putting her hand on Ultimate’s pants and telling him he ought to be worried that smoking was going to stunt his growth?

Total bitch.

Somehow, stupidly, she felt awkward that he’d seen her at her most vicious. “So you know the names for me then.”

He lifted his eyebrows.

“Bitch, ball breaker, man eater. Black widow...” She started, the list went on.

She might’ve only been working at St Clair’s a couple weeks but she had the usual rep already: awesome mixing skills–and awful attitude. Which wasn’t strictly accurate. She actually loved putting on a show and she was almost always polite... but she had to be frosty with it. It was the best way to keep people at a distance.

“I wouldn’t call you any of those things,” blue-eyes answered softly.

“No?”

“I’d call you magnificent.” He reached across and picked up another fragment of glass.

“Please don’t do that,” she said, rattled.

“Call you magnificent or help with the mess?”

“I can manage.”

“I wasn’t implying that you couldn’t.” He dropped the shard into his hand. “I’m just helping.”

“I don’t need you to.”

“Or want me to.”

She bit the inside of her lip, hating that he made her feel rude.

“But I want to,” he said.

“You always do whatever you want?”

“You always take the offensive?” He looked at her.

Yep, just like that, her defenses rose.

He chuckled.

It was an appallingly seductive sound. Only suddenly it ended with a pained hiss.

She glanced down and saw the thin line of red appearing down the length of his finger.

“I told you to leave it, now you’ve hurt yourself,” she scolded. She slid the dustpan towards him and he tipped the pile of glass into it.

“It’s just a scratch,” he said.

“You’re bleeding.” She stood and hurried behind the bar.

“Relax, I’m not gonna sue.”

“I’ll get a Band-aid.” She growled and grabbed one together with some cotton wool and a tube of antiseptic from the small First Aid kit under the bar. But when she glanced over, she saw he was still hunched low, single-handedly putting the pieces of glass in the pan, his cut hand curled and held to his chest.

“Will you stop that?” She sighed as he kept putting the shards into the pan. “Please.”

He paused, looking up at her, an imp of amusement in his eyes. “Ask me like that and I’ll do anything.”

It should have been sleazy—the kind of line Ultimate would deliver. Except it wasn’t. He’d meant it as a joke. To make her smile.

And amazingly, she did. “Then please come and let me fix up your finger.”

He took the bar stool he’d had earlier and hooked his feet on the rungs. Even sitting, the guy was tall. And now was not the time to get all self-conscious and super-aware and start thinking about how long it was since she’d been this close to a man.

She sat on the stool beside his and tried not to notice how long his legs were, how near they were to hers.

“Hold still while I look for glass,” she muttered apologetically. “It might hurt.”

“I don’t mind.”

Do not respond to the sensual undercurrent in his low murmur.

She took his hand in hers and took her time to sponge it with a small wad of cotton wool and carefully check there was no glass left in the cut.

Do not speculate on the size of his hand... the potential strength.

Cursing under her breath at her descent into brainlessness, she glanced up. His face was so near she could feel the warmth of his breath and this close his eyes were spellbinding.

“You’re lucky, it looks clear,” she said briskly, trying to pull her head together.

“Thanks.” He looked boyishly contrite, like he’d been told off by his favorite teacher and was trying to suppress his smile.

Savannah looked back down to the cut, blood welled in it again. “I’ll put a Band-aid on it.”

“Thanks.”

Focus. Be professional. Keep your distance.

“Not too tight?” She checked as she wound the plaster round his finger.

“No, it feels good.”

Kiss it better.

Where the hell had that idea come from?