Page 62 of Painted Scars
She squints at me. “Either this is a dream, or I died and got a very sexy Grim Reaper. Kiss me and make it count, Grumpy. This is heaven, after all.”
“Your guard dog takes his job seriously.” I nod to my new sidekick. “I’m not chancing losing a finger.”
She strokes PJ3’s coat. “He’s got murder in his blood.”
Her sass is back. Good sign. My shoulders drop half an inch.
“How’s your head?” I press my palm to her forehead. Less clammy.
God, her scent.Fruity and sweet like fucking fairy dust. Every time I breathe it in, it lights a fuse down my spine.
She winces and touches her temple. “Feels like I lost a cage fight with a semi-truck.”
I dab her forehead and cheeks with the wet cloth. “The truck wouldn’t survive the encounter. You’re indestructible. Chuck Norris-level.”
“Immortality.” She punctuates the notes like she’s starring in a tragic musical, but damned if it isn’t captivating.
Something tells me it’s a Celine Dion song, and I have more research to do on that front.
She sits up, catches my wrist, and my chest flutters. “I like you like this. A little bit soft. It suits you.” Her thumb sweeps over my hammering pulse. My throat burns. She’s reading me like one of her questionable book boyfriends.
I change the subject. “You remember anything from last night?”
“Back to business. Okay. Um.” She scratches her eyebrow. “Fragments. Vodka shots, dancing, heat, sweaty bodies. Then everything gets blurry.”
Best to hit her with the truth. “Someone spiked your drink.”
“You saved me again.” She pokes my arm. “I’m starting to think you’re not just morally gray. You might be my type.”
The way she looks at me, like I’m the only man in her life not trying to hurt her, obliterates every objection to stay away. And that’s the real danger.
“Drink this.” I cradle the back of her head and lift the water to her lips. For once, she doesn’t sass me, and drinks like she trusts me. That alone cracks the stone wall surrounding my heart.
“Thank you,” she rasps, clasping her neck. “My throat’s so dry.”
“You hungry?” I gesture to a plate of sliced fruit on her side table.
A slow, teasing smile curls on her cracked, dry lips. I want to kiss it off her face and steal her breath. “My, you’re stacking up the stalker brownie points, sir. If you made me pancakes for breakfast, I may marry you. If you add bacon, I’ll call you Vigilante Daddy.”
Why the fuck does that warm me all over and tighten my stomach at the same time? My fingers twitch with a need to do something stupid like feed her. Be a real hero instead of a monster.
She swats PJ3 away when he makes a grab for a strawberry. “Bad doggy.” Her scolding voice is sleep-rough and fucking adorable.
PJ3 grumbles and flops beside her.
“He walks all over me. This is why you got him training lessons, isn’t it?” She stuffs a raspberry in her mouth.
“No, I got it for you to practice techniques to discourage him from barking and irking your neighbor.” I drop beside her and hold her knee. “It’s how Josh inherited the name PJ3.”
Her eyebrows crush together. “He’s named after a Star Wars droid?”
Fucking hell, how does she always make me smile or laugh with her wit?
“Pipsqueak John the third is named after his Holiness the Pope.” I feed her a grape because I need to feel her gorgeous mouth wrapped over my fingers. “Mostly because he acts like he’s been divinely appointed.”
She snorts and takes her treat, crushing the berry, and I nearly fucking come in my pants. “He’s got that Napoleon complex.”
“Exactly.” I nudge his butt with my elbow. “You’re just one of his disciples.”
