I spin around to face him.It’s on the tip of my tongue.I’m going to inform him that I’m not a virgin and he doesn’t need to protect me.Not from Evander.Not from anyone.
What comes out of my mouth instead is, “Are you hungry?Want some eggs?”
“I’d love some, thanks,” he says.
CHAPTER 7
Evander
I’m finally home.
I walk to my bedroom and toss my wallet and keys into the antique bureau-top tray.
I strip out of my clothes, carefully hanging my suit on the custom mahogany valet stand.I use a damp cloth to spot clean the blotches of road salt on the trouser hems, the price I’m paying for pushing Phoebe’s car from the curb.
I wipe off my vest, too, where she’d sniffled and mumbled, and then I use the cloth to wipe the salt from my loafers as well.
I smile, thinking of Phoebe.She’s cute.She’s always been cute, in a naïve, freckled-faced kind of way.That’s probably why noticing how beautiful she’s become left me feeling off-kilter today.
It happens.Girls grow into women.Boys into men.And she’s all grown up now.We’ve all grown up.
That’s a crock of shit and I know it.
It wasn’t just today that I noticed how much she’s changed.The truth is, I saw it earlier this year, when she took care of me after I broke my leg.
Every once in a while, I’d catch her looking at me with something that went way beyond professional or neighborly concern.I’d have to break eye contact with her when that happened.I’d start bitching about my cast or start arguing with her about how I was perfectly capable of going on a nice, ten-mile hike in the woods or some shit.
At least that would stop her from looking at me with those big, knowing eyes.
The last thing I’d ever want to do is lead her on.
I head into the bathroom and turn on the shower.
What color are those eyes, anyway?Amber?Hazel?Gold?I did see flecks of green in there when she looked up at me today.And when the sun hit her hair, I noticed reddish-blond streaks in the messy curls.
I step into the shower.
Those freckles of hers are the show-stoppers, though.They’re a light-hearted touch to an otherwise classically lovely face.She’s got creamy skin.A heart-shaped chin and a delicate pout of a mouth.Her cheekbones belong on a movie star instead of a small-town rancher’s daughter.
And the girl can certainly fill out a pair of nursing scrubs.I homed in on that fact even as I writhed in pain on an emergency room gurney after getting thrown from a horse.
My bone was broken, not my eyeballs.
I let the steaming hot water cascade down my head, neck, and back.I use my palms to slick the hair from my forehead, tilting toward the spray.
Pretty face.Gorgeous eyes.Rockin’ bod.And a set of reindeer antlers.Which brings me to the absolute best thing about Phoebe Travis.
She’s the kindest, most cheerfully generous person I’ve ever encountered.She’s fun.She earnestly cares about other people.
If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was on mood-altering medication.But it’s just who she is, who she’s always been.The woman was in an accident today and apologized for troubling me.
I finish my shower and towel off, thinking that whoever she ends up with in this life better be insanely good to her.I’m talking over-the-top devoted.
Because that’s what she deserves.
It would come in handy if the guy could stand up to her dipshit brothers, too—the boxer, the MMA fighter, the pro quarterback, the baseball catcher, and the hockey star.
Or however the Travassholes are making their livings these days.I’ve lost track.
