I’m passing out.
The last conscious thought I have is to lean away from thecounter so I don’t smack my face on the edge as I go down. Then, everything goes black.
“Mariah.” The deep voice calling to me through the darkness is soft, but edged with panic. “I need you to wake up.”
I vaguely remember feeling cold, but now I’m so warm. Comfortable and cozy. Surrounded by a familiar scent that has me curling closer to its source, fully intending to slip back into the quiet place I just came from.
Something brushes against my cheek. The touch is careful but slightly rough as it smooths over my skin, sliding in a slow pass that tracks the curve of my jaw before stroking into my hair.
It’s been so long since someone touched me like this. With tenderness. I must be dreaming. The only person who ever held me this way was my mother, and that was only before I started reminding her of everything she couldn’t have.
But it’s not a soft feminine body curled around me right now. The arms holding me are solid. Strong. The chest I’m pressed against is broad and firm.
And my mother’s perfume was soft and floral. What’s tickling my nose now is?—
Something I’ve smelled before.
I try to open my eyes, but they just kind of roll around behind my eyelids no matter how hard I work to get them up.
“That’s it.” The warm hand continues gliding through my hair, gently brushing it away from my face. “Good girl. You can do it.”
That voice. It’s almost as warming as the heat radiating from the body pressed to mine. It’s so deep. A little rough—like it doesn’t get used a lot.
And very, very appealing.
Appealing enough, I’m no longer trying to slide back under. Iwant—need—to see the source of that voice. The face of the man holding me so gently.
This time, I manage to blink, wincing a little when the bright morning light hits my retinas. It takes me a second to find focus, and when I do, I can’t hide my reaction.
A slow smile finds its way onto my lips as I stare up at Titus Bradshaw. “You came out of your cave.”
His green eyes move over my face, the slashes of his dark brows pinching together as he looks me over. “Did you hit your head?”
“Are you planning to try to convince me I’m hallucinating your existence because of a concussion?” I shake my head, unable to look away as I try to take in everything in front of me. “Because I don’t think it will work.”
I couldn’t have come up with what I’m seeing now if I tried. Even my best and most flattering imaginings of Titus—and there were more than a few—haven’t come close to the man studying me with a concerned—and slightly haunted—gaze.
I thought Walker was good-looking. And he is. In a basic, classically attractive sort of way.
Titus Bradshaw is nothing like that, and nothing could convince me my brain fashioned him all on its own. I’m not that creative when it comes to anything besides food. And honestly, my history with men probably limits my ability to imagine them as anything but shiny turds.
I certainly wouldn’t have been able to come up with wavy—slightly overgrown—dark hair that falls a little into one eye. Piercing green eyes that are assessing, but warm. Full lips. A sharp jaw shadowed by the beginnings of a beard.
Walker might be handsome, but Titus is beautiful.
He’s also heavily scarred. The twisting lines of healed skin pucker and bulge across his right cheek, clawing their way up to his forehead and around to his chin. They weave down the line of his jaw and along the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
The sight of them might have been startling a week ago, but not now. Now I know why he hides away, and it makes my chest ache. Makes me wish I’d baked him that damn caramel cake he wanted.
Titus’s gaze narrows slightly as his strong fingers slowly work across my scalp in a motion that feels so freaking good I almost moan.
“What day is it?”
“Hmm?” I’m going to blame my distraction on finally seeing him and his magic touch rather than a possible head injury.
Titus’s brows lower, the left one moving more effectively than the right. “What day is it today?”
“Oh.” I have to think about it for a second—again, more likely due to finding myself in Titus Bradshaw’s arms than my little fall-down—but I manage to rattle off the month and date, adding the day of the week for good measure.
