She’s teetering and falling.
She’s falling because she wasjumping on a stepstool.
I know how this ends, and I see it all happening in slow motion.
This ends with her banging her head on the sink, passing out, and crashing to the ground unconscious. Hurt.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Dying.
The dog charges through his doggy door with a yelp-bark.
I bump my sore hip against the prep table, almost trip over the dog, and lunge for her, grabbing her by the arm as she catches herself on the stainless steel sink with her free hand, spins so her back is to the sink, and recovers.
Without the actual need of my help.
Naturally.
Because she’s some kind of beloved freak who can somehow defy even gravity, andit’s goddamn adorable.
The next time Zen tells me I’m in a mood, I can tell you why.
It’s because Sabrina Sullivan has seeped into my every waking thought and she’s a terrible idea.
“Wow. Well.” She straightens, then seems to realize how close I am as she slowly lifts her head to peer all the way up at me. “That wasn’t how I saw my early afternoon going, exactly, but would you look at that landing? Apparently my mom thinking I was short enough to be a gymnast when I was little still has some benefits with dexterity and balance. But maybe don’t startle people when they’re standing on stepstools next time, boss-man? Yeah? Great. Good talk. Sit, Jitter. Mama’s fine.”
Zen, Willa, and Cedar all stare at us from the doorway to the dining room.
I’m still standing too close. I’m still gripping her arm.
I’m so close, when she breathes, her chest brushes my abdomen.
I need to step back.
But I don’t want to.
I don’t want to let go. Not when my brain is still full of images of her sprawled on the floor bleeding out from a head wound and adrenaline is sending my heart into overdrive and putting me at risk of getting my blood pressure into that zone that my doctor told me to avoid.
And especially not when I’m touching her skin with my bare hand, and she’s radiating warmth and her breath is coming more rapidly and her eyes are going dark, and I know she feels this too.
I don’t want to be attracted to this woman. I don’t want to feel sympathy toward her. I don’t want to fantasize about the noises she makes when I’m buried up to my balls inside of her and I don’t want to remember how good it felt to make her laugh when she was so sad in Hawaii, or how many times I’ve thought of her since I left the islands.
I don’t.
But I can’t let go.
It feels too damn good to hold on to her no matter how much I logically know this is a bad, bad idea.
“Back, boss-man,” she says. “Like I told my dog, I’m fine.”
She delivers it with a smile, but there’s a bite in her narrowing gaze.
I drop her arm like it’s on fire and step back, nearly tripping over the dog again.
Zen’s amused, which I only know because I know them well enough to spot the subtle smirk barely tipping up their mouth on one side as they stand in the doorway watching me.
