In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(4)

He stripped off his outer layer of flannel as he laid the dog down on the kitchen table. It was a bulky, quilted jacket, but even without it, he’s huge, his shoulders and the muscles of his arms tightening his blue and gray flannel shirt. He rolled up the sleeves to reveal a white waffle-knit shirt that’s too short in the sleeves, exposing thick wrists and powerful forearms. His huge hands are gentle on the dog’s fur and I can’t help but imagine what they’d feel like on my skin. What it would be like to be held in those hands, to be enveloped. My hand tightens in the dog’s fur and I force myself to relax as it makes a sound.

“She’s a girl, by the way.” His voice startles me and I meet his eyes, praying that he can’t read what I’ve been thinking about on my face. The last thing I need is for tomorrow’s local paper—if they even have a paper in this town—to carry a story that reads, “Out of town gay man found beaten to death in cabin of unfairly handsome local straight bruiser. Police assume queer panic ensued after out of town gay made a pass at straight bruiser.”

“Huh?” I say. He swallows, like he isn’t used to talking.

“The dog. You were right, she isn’t a boy.” He pats the dog gently and scoops her up, depositing her in a nest of blankets in front of the fireplace.

“Oh,” I say. “Great.” I stand and follow him. I realize I’m nodding compulsively and force myself to stop. He touches a long match to the newspaper and kindling below the logs in the grate.

“Is she going to be okay, do you think?” The fire consumes the paper and there’s a delicious, earthy smell as the bark on the logs starts to crackle. With the fire lit, he turns toward me.

“I think so. If she can stay off this leg tonight, I’ll take her into town tomorrow. Have the vet check her out for any internal injuries.”

I’m suddenly so relieved that I go a little woozy. I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t hurt the poor dog beyond repair. I’m not a total f*ckup.

“Whoa,” he says. In one step, he’s there, grabbing me by both shoulders to keep me upright. My vision is a little blurry and I blink up at him. God, he’s handsome. His brows are furrowed with worry, his eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” he says, looking down. “I should’ve made sure you weren’t hurt.”

“No, I’m okay,” I say, stepping out from under his hands.

“You were in a car accident. Come here.” He steps behind me and puts his hands back on my shoulders, guiding me to the bathroom. When he flips the switch, I wince at the harsh light after being so long in the dark. In the mirror, I can see why he’s concerned. My black hair is messy and there’s a smear of blood on my cheek from the dog. A bruise is already coming out on my forehead, though I don’t even remember hitting my head. I blink at my reflection. My pupils are huge, even in the bright light, leaving only a thin ring of green around them.

He’s looking at me in the mirror, his light eyes fixed on mine. I can smell him behind me: wood smoke and damp wool and something lightly piney, like deodorant. Or, hey, I guess in the woods it could actually be pine. I can feel the warmth he’s giving off and it reminds me of how cold I am. He turns me around by the shoulders again, like he’s my rudder.

I shiver. I dropped my coat by the door, but even though it was cold out, I sweat through my shirt and suit coat while I was carrying the dog, and now they’ve turned cold and clammy. The tie I borrowed from my brother, Sam, and the new white shirt I bought for my interview are both streaked with blood.

“Shit.” I halfheartedly swipe at the blood. As I rub a little harder, I wince, realizing that my chest is sore.

“Were you wearing your seat belt?”

“Huh?” I feel like I’m processing everything five seconds after he says it. “Oh, yeah.”

He slides my suit jacket off my shoulders and starts to unbutton my shirt.

“Um,” I mumble. He bats my hand away and pulls my shirt apart. When I look down, I can see a purple bruise forming in the shape of my seat belt. Well, good to know it worked, I guess. The bruise is long, disappearing into the tattoos that cover most of my torso.

“Tell me if it’s particularly tender anywhere.” He probes the length of the bruise gently.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, half because it’s true and half because I can’t think with his fingers on my skin. His hands are warm the way big guys’ are sometimes—great circulation, I guess.

“Wasn’t expecting those,” he says, gesturing to my tattoos. It’s funny. Anyone who meets me when I’m dressed professionally is surprised to find out I have tattoos, but anyone who knows me from my real life—at concerts, coffee shops, or just around—thinks my professional drag looks out of place.

I shrug and he gives me a cursory once-over, looking for other bruises.

“Take your pants off.”

“Oh, um, I—” I scooch backward, away from him. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep it together standing in front of this gorgeous man almost naked. “Maybe, could I just take a shower?”

He doesn’t say anything, but turns the water on and grabs a towel from a shelf on the wall. It’s forest green. It seems like everything about him and this house is green and brown. Earthy.

“Here, give me your clothes,” he says. “I’ll get you something of mine to wear.”