“About Jon?”
“About any of it.” I hate how desperate I sound. “I mean it, Jeremy. Snitches wind up in ditches.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you threatening me with an idiom?”
“It’s a lifestyle philosophy.”
Now he does smile, and it transforms his face in a way I’m not prepared for, softening it into something more approachable. I notice the fullness of his lower lip, the small scar near his hairline that I’ve never been close enough to see before.
“The only person who’s going to end up in a ditch,” he says, “is your fiancé.”
“Ex.” The word comes out automatically. I cover my left hand with my right, hiding the ring that suddenly feels like a brand. “Ex-fiancé. As of about an hour ago.”
An emotion I can’t read flares in his eyes before he tamps it down. “You made the right choice.”
“I wish I could sound as calm as you about it.”
“Would you prefer I wasn’t calm?”
I try to imagine Jeremy Winslow losing his composure. Itdoesn’t compute for a man who probably schedules his emotions in fifteen-minute increments.
“I just mean—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“I don’t know your ex-fiancé personally. But I know his type.” He returns to cleaning the cut on my temple, his touch so light I barely feel it. “I also know you didn’t fall because you’re clumsy.”
“I can handle my own business.”
“I’m sure you can.” He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers skimming the shell of my ear. The touch is brief, but my skin tingles where he made contact. I remind myself that I’m emotionally compromised and possibly concussed and definitely not in a position to notice anything about Jeremy Winslow’s fingers, or the rest of him.
“Okay,” he says, sitting back. “The bleeding’s stopped.”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock at the door. Jeremy rises to answer it, and a moment later, a woman in medical scrubs enters, carrying a bag that looks reassuringly official.
“She fell,” Jeremy says before the doctor can ask any questions.
“I wasn’t here when I fell,” I clarify as if Jeremy needs me to protect him from a potential rumor mill. Like he can’t take care of himself. And me, apparently.
He gives me a blistering look. “No woman would fall with me.”
His voice is low, almost a growl, and the proprietary note to it makes my stomach do a complicated little flip. Fallforyou, the part of my brain with no self-preservation instinct whispers. I shove the thought down hard.
The doctor cleans the wound, applies liquid stitches that sting like a bitch, and walks me through every concussion protocol known to modern medicine. Follow my finger. What day is it? The month? I answer everything correctly, which feels like a small victory given that the rest of my life is a pile of smoldering ash on the ground.
“I don’tthinkyou have a concussion,” she says finally,handing me two white tablets and a glass of water. “But Mr. Winslow should check on you every few hours tonight, just to be safe.”
“Oh, I’m not staying?—”
“I’ll keep an eye on her.” Jeremy’s voice cuts through my protest.
“I’m certain you will,” the doctor answers without hesitation.
I want to argue that I don’t need him keeping an eye on me like I’m a toddler who might touch a hot stove. But she’s already packing her bag, Damon has reappeared at the doorway with his unflappable butler vibe, and I realize I’m too tired to fight about sleeping arrangements. Or anything right now. Besides, I have nowhere else to go.
“Thank you,” I manage, and the doctor gives me a kind smile. I bet I’m not the first woman to have trouble in paradise, and wonder how she’s so certain Jeremy will take care of me. Or why I’m so sure I agree with her.
He walks them both to the door, then turns back toward me, holding what looks like a set of ink-black pajamas.
“Damon thought you might want something to sleep in.” He sets them on the arm of the sofa. “Given the state of your dress.”
