Page 25 of Top Shelf
“Yep.”
He nods, then pushes the door open farther, allowing me to enter the room first. I keep waiting for my senses to tell me this is wrong and that I should bolt right out the door, but it never happens, not even as I walk deeper inside. It’s a near copy of my own room five floors higher, decorated much like the rest of the hotel: a bit of modern mixed with vintage plus a bit of New York. Sleek yet cozy. Dark but not in a scary way.
The door clicks softly shut behind me, and I peer over my shoulder. Gavin takes up nearly the entire entryway. So big and so tall. Though I’m a few inches above the average height for a woman, I still feel so small beside him, and I like it a little too much.
He ducks into the bathroom, and I let my eyes wander over his things—a pair of socks near the chair, a tie wadded up on the desk, a book, and a pair of glasses near the bed. He’s made himself comfortable here.
“I don’t have much, but I think this will do,” Gavin says as he walks into the main room.
He’s holding a small first-aid kit in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other.
“What?” he asks as he gestures for me to take a seat on the bed. “Why are you smiling?”
I shake my head as I settle onto the mattress, which is, of course, perfect too. “Nothing. Just thought it was cute you travel with a first-aid kit.”
“You don’t?” He squats in front of me, and I notice how his pants stretch over his thighs.Bigthighs. Thick. Muscular.
“Can’t say I’ve ever even thought about it.”
He shakes his head with a weary sigh. “Such a rookie mistake. You never know when you’re going to need it.”
“Apparently not. I didn’t exactly have ‘almost get run over by a skateboarder’ on my agenda for this trip.”
“No, I guess you didn’t.” He peeks up at me. “This might hurt a bit, so bear with me. You ready?”
I nod, holding my breath as he cleans the wound with the washcloth. He’s right. It does hurt, but it’s nothing compared to how it feels having his hand wrapped around my ankle. His touch is gentle yet firm. Soft but calloused. And I don’t hate it one bit. I try not to be disappointed when he lets me go, reaching into the small kit and digging out some petroleum jelly and a bandage.
“So, vacation, huh?” he asks, ripping open the ointment package.
I smile. He’s trying to distract me. I love that he’s trying to distract me.
“Sort of. Family thing. They’re out with my brother, and I wasn’t up for tagging along.”
“The sounds fun. What all are you doing while you’re in town?”
I don’t mention the hockey game my parents went to tonight. I don’t usually like telling people about what my brother does for a living, not just because we barely tolerate one another, but because I never know if someone is trying to use it to their advantage. I don’t think Gavin would, but still.
“Little bit of this, little bit of that,” I answer noncommittally. “Nobody wanted to go to the bar with me, and now I can see why. I felt a bit old being there myself.”
“Old.” He makes a displeased noise as he continues getting my bandage ready. “You’re not old, Nessa, far from it. You’re young. Maybe even too young.”
Those last four words feel like they’re for himself, and it makes me wonder how old he is. It feels wrong to ask, though. Besides, what would it matter? I’m leaving after this, and I’ll never see him again.
His brows dip closer together in concentration as he wrestles with the bandage, trying to avoid letting the sticky parts touch one another while he applies jelly to it.
“Almost got it…” he murmurs. “There.” He looks back up at me. “Ready for the bandage?”
I nod again, hoping like hell he doesn’t hear my quiet inhale as he touches me, this time closer to my wound. His fingers curl around my calf, sliding up ever so slowly, and I have to actively work not to shake from his touch. It doesn’t stop the goose bumps, though. No, those break out over my skin anyway.
Gavin smiles at that.
“Sorry. Cold in here,” I murmur as an excuse, though it’s not cold at all. If anything, I’m sweating, and it has nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
It’s all the man kneeling before me, the one with the gray-streaked hair and the hazel eyes that are too damn pretty to be real. His fingers massage the tense muscle as he gently places the bandage over my scrape.
I laugh when I realize what’s on it. “Baby Shark?”
He doesn’t look the least bit bashful when he says, “Loads of nieces and nephews, remember?”
