The warmth and weight of his arm made everything better. Or worse?
She couldn’t decide.
One thing she knew was that when he murmured her name or, rather, the nickname that sounded so right in his mouth, she was lost.
Lost in the gold glinting in his eyes. Lost in the way his expression held equal parts hunger and kindness—he wanted her, but mostly he wanted her to be happy. Lost in the way his hot skin smelled of sunshine and clean, healthy sweat, and just a hint of that smoky aftershave.
He gestured around the packed kitchen. “If ya ever needed proof of how much you’re loved, it’s all right here.”
Every emotion she’d been keeping in, all the grief and guilt and loss, rose to the surface and there was no holding back the tears that filled her eyes.
He didn’t hesitate to pull her into a hug. And she clung to him as what felt like the weight of the world, and certainly the weight of her wounded heart, bore down on her.
“I know.” He whispered close to her ear. “You’ve been goin’ ninety-to-nothin’ all day. But now it’s time to stop runnin’ ’round like a chicken with your head cut off and feel all the things that need feelin’.”
Damnit! Why did he have to be so…amazing?
Instead of stopping her tears, his words made them fall faster.
She wasn’t sure how long they stood there like that, him holding her together even as she fell apart. By the time her tears were reduced to soft sniffles and she pushed out of his arms to grab a tea towel and wipe her runny nose, the kitchen had cleared out.
That wasanotherway everyone at BKI showed her they loved her. Because she’d said she wanted them to go about their evenings, and they’d taken her at her word.
They hadn’t fawned or fussed. They’d seen she’d reached her wits end and they’d quietly and respectfully left her to it. Or, rather, they’d left Fisher to hold her through it.
She wasn’t sure what family was supposed to look like. She’d been so young when her mother died, and her father had always felt more like a benevolent ruler than a relative. But if family was supposed to look like people who respected and supported you through thick and thin, who loved you and laughed with you through the good and bad, then what she’d found at Black Knights Inc. was family with a capital F.
“Who knew the easiest way to clear out a room was to burst into tears?” she said with a watery laugh as she continued to mop up her face. The swelling near her temple had disappeared. But the structures beneath were still sore. She was reminded of that when she got too aggressive with the tea towel and hissed.
“Have ya tried puttin’ arnica on it?” Fisher asked.
“What?” She frowned at him.
“Arnica gel?” He cocked his head. “No one’s ever told ya ’bout arnica gel?”
She shook her head, and he crossed the kitchen to rummage through the cabinet where they kept the Band-Aids, pain relievers, Icy Hot, and all the other things used by men whose jobs required them to put their bodies through the ringer on a regular basis.
After he found what he was looking for, he rounded the island and patted a barstool. “C’mere. Hop on up.”
Her legs were a little wobbly—and Peanut’s continued figure-eights around her ankles didn’t help—but she did as instructed. The big tomcat hopped onto her lap and started making biscuits on her thighs as soon as she was situated atop the stool. She absently scratched between his eyes as she watched Fisher uncap the tube and squeeze onto his fingertip a good dollop of clear gel.
It didn’t look like much. But it felt divine when he gently spread the gel over her injuries. He started with the bruise on her cheek—the thing had turned blueish in the center and sickly yellowish around the edges—before moving on to the sore spot near her temple.
The arnica was cool and smooth. But it was mostly the tenderness of his touch that brought relief.
“God, that feels good,” she breathed.
“Mmm.” He nodded, going back to add more gel atop her bruised cheek. “When you’ve spent the last fifteen years gettin’ bruises, breakin’ bones, and bein’ shot, ya tend to learn all the tricks for takin’ away the pain.”
She’d seen him without his shirt plenty of times—the Black Knights weren’t a bashful or a modest bunch. She knew about the puckered scar on his left shoulder.
Bullet wound, she’d guessed the first time she’d seen it.
He wasn’t the only one to sport such a souvenir.Mostof the Knights wore scars as easily as they wore their biker boots. And it was kind of an unspoken rule that they didn’t talk about them.
Except…he’d piqued her curiosity. And she neededsomethingto focus on other than his nearness. Other than his body heat that reached out to wrap around her.
“How many timeshaveyou been shot?” She winced and pulled out one of Peanut’s claws when the cat got a little too zealous with the biscuits.
