Page 16 of Entirely Yours
Son of a bitch, that hurt.
I was planning to start fixing up the studio tonight—cleaning it at the very least—but I hadn’t gotten around to it yet, and now Jules has derailed my whole night. He’s thrown me literally and figuratively off kilter.
I had convinced myself that Ben told Jules about Chloe and he was immediately repulsed by my very being. That’s how it usually goes. The really fun narrative running through my head was that Jules was planning to avoid me until one of us was forced to move to a new city. Obviously me—last in, first out and all that.
Chloe’s dad didn’t want me, or her for that matter, and the few guys I’ve tried to date find out about my spunky four-year-old and suddenly there’s some excuse for ending things, the “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit.
Men are trash. Some days I really wish I was a lesbian. Or at least bisexual. I’m living proof that sexualityis not a choice.
Unsurprisingly, I have taken great lengths to avoid men entirely until a week ago.
Also unsurprisingly, I don’t do well with blood. And the blood leaking down my palm right now is going to make me pass out for the second fucking time in front of this man. I don’t like blood and I don’t like being vulnerable. The first is unavoidable at this precise moment.
Luckily, Jules seems to be more of a grown-ass adult than I am because he cradles my palm and guides me toward the door. “We can clean this up next door. Are you good to walk?”
“Uh huh,” I say, unsure if that’s true but unwilling to admit it’s not. “I’m going to have to get another tetanus shot,” I mumble before everything goes black.
My new pillow smells really good. It’s slightly firmer than I’m used to but damn. I hope this isn’t like new car smell where it eventually goes away.
I bury my nose into the pillow and take a deep inhale, trying to identify what exactly is so good about it. The answer is tickling my brain when all of a sudden, my new pillow moves.
And it’s not a pillow at all.
It’s a man.
With a very manly smelling chest.
And strong muscles that are carrying me bridal style.
I’m aware enough to realize that I shouldn’t like this but not enough to actually do anything about it. I groan as the manly-chest-arm guy lays me down on a nearby couch. When I move to push myself up, pain shoots through my hand.
“Fuck!” I whine.
An authoritative voice filters from somewhere out of my line of sight. “Don’t move, Thea.”
I freeze, slightly concerned at how my body just reacted to Jules’ command. Closing my eyes, I try to take inventory ofwhat’s going on, while also taking deep breaths in and out. I can feel him come to my side, even though I’ve decided to keep my eyelids firmly shut.
“May I?” he asks, lightly touching my hand to get a closer look. I nod in reply and he inspects my wound.
“Do we have to amputate?” I ask, trying to add some levity to the situation.
“Amputation isn’t something to joke about,” he replies firmly.
“Oh—Of… of course, I wouldn’t?—”
“I’m messing with you, Thea,” he interrupts.
I’m messing with you.
My mind takes that phrase and runs with it.
I huff a laugh. “Obvious—OUCH! Ow, ow, ow!”
“Almost done,” Jules soothes. “You’re doing great. It’s just a little water.”
“From the pits of hell?” I whine.
I open my eyes and catch him smiling down at my hand, a wet rag dripping over the wound. “You’re a fiery one.” He chuckles. “You’ll yell at me for cleaning up your mess but can’t even keep your own head up right now. You don’t like receiving help, do you?”
