Page 38 of The Love Destroyers

“I’m calling an ambulance,” I say.

But he reaches up and captures my hand, holding it to his warm cheek. My eyes settle on that raised bump on his forehead, a line of blood trickling from it, down his cheek, but it’s not on the side or back of his head. That’s a good thing, right?

“Don’t leave me alone with the woman who tried to murder me,” he says with a half-smile.

I glance over and meet my mother’s gaze. She looks like she feels guilty, which is probably a first for her. “Mom, can you call someone?”

“Of course I will,” she says.

But Seamus shakes his head. “There’s no need for that. I don’t have health insurance. There’s no point in paying thousands of dollars for them to tell me to take it easy and use an ice pack.”

“Seamus,” I say, an admonishment ringing in my tone.

He glances up at me. “Hey, it wasn’t offered in my employment package,” he says, humor in his voice. Humor is always in his voice, dammit, and I appreciate that as much as it aggravates me.

“Well, I’ll be paying, of course,” my mother says stiffly. “After all, I am the one who knocked you in the head.”

“It’s not necessa—”

“It’sverynecessary,” I insist. “You’ll go, and you’ll listen to everything they say.”

“Agreed,” she says, then purses her lips and leaves the room to make the call.

I glance back down at Seamus, who’s grimacing now. He starts to sit up and I still him with a hand on his chest. “You can’t get up! What if you have a concussion?”

He groans. “Then I’ll be sitting up with a concussion. I’d prefer that to lying down in case your mother gets any other brilliant ideas.”

But I keep my hand planted on his chest. “Please. Stay here until someone who knows what they’re doing can look at you.”

“You’re bossy as hell,” he says, not sounding displeased about it.

“I know,” I agree.

There’s another mewling sound from the wall.

“Someone needs to get the cat out,” he says, trying to sit up again. “I like cats.”

“So do I, but you’re not going to be the one who saves it.” I attempt to hold him down with my hands, but he finishes sitting, the stubborn bastard. I retaliate by sitting on his outstretched legs, just above his knees. He makes a displeased sound and then wipes his face with his hands before tentatively lifting one of them to touch the big knot.

“Your mother could have been a star pitcher.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, worry bubbling inside me. “Your forehead is bleeding.”

He looks up from his hands and smiles at me—a smile I feel in my chest, the sensation pulsing outward and bucketingawareness through my body. “I’d feel a whole lot better if you scooted up a couple of feet.”

I roll my eyes at him, but there’s no denying I feel our proximity in a new way. His legs are stretched out beneath me, his hard chest so close. His…

Meowwwww

He groans again. “I’m going to get it out. It could get injured from the wood and plaster dust.”

“Like hell you are,” I say, grabbing the sledgehammer from where it fell on the floor. “You’re not going to steal my thunder.I’mgoing to save it.”

Something tells me it’s the only argument that will stick.

He smiles at me and reaches over to wipe something off my cheek. Plaster maybe. Hopefully not his blood. “You’re going to sledge the wall you paid me to sledge? That’s not very Little Rich Girl of you.”

“I don’t care for that nickname. If you call me that, I’m calling you the Fonz.”

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