He hisses through his teeth. "Son of a?—"
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I just…" His body is leaning against mine and I don't entirely trust his ankle to keep him upright.
"You’re gonna sit down." I lead him toward a bar stool, but he’s trying to resist.
"I'm fine."
"Mr. Aldridge, please."
"Only if you call me Beck."
I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat. "Sit down, Beck."
"Only for a moment,” he says, sliding onto the seat with a crooked smile. “To get my bearings. Then I’ll go change my shirt.”
My hand is still on his solid bicep.
And he notices. His eyes drop to it and I feel the muscle flex under the soft flannel before his gaze moves back up.
I take my hand back like I touched the stove.
“I'll be right back.” He clears his throat and carefully finds his footing. "Unless, you’d want to help me change.”
I level my eyes at him. “I’ll help by cleaning up, here.”
He rolls his teeth over his lower lip and tips his head. "Kind of you, Ms. Dempsey."
He limps off down the hall and I find the spray cleaner and paper towels in the cabinet under the sink. I tackle the mess as my heart beats a little harder than it should.
In barely five minutes, he comes back through the kitchen pulling a black T-shirt over his head.
It’s bunched at his shoulders, and his arms are still up, and for maybe two long seconds, I’m staring at Beck’s bare torso.
He’s broad and sun-bronzed all over, as if he’s often bare-chested under the sun. There’s a scar on his right pectoral, thin and clean—the kind a doctor leaves. And another one across the bottom of his ribs on the left side, longer and rougher. A dusting of dark hair covers a well-defined stomach and highlights the cut of muscle that dips into the waistband of his jeans.
Oooh, boy, I’ll be picturing that every time I close my eyes.
I lick my lips.
The shirt drops as his head clears the neck hole, and he tugs it down.
He catches me looking.
One brow arches and the corner of his mouth curls up a notch.
I quickly turn to toss the used paper towels into the bin. “Done.”
He huffs a quiet laugh as he passes behind me and gets two plates down from the cabinet.
Then he goes to another cabinet with glasses. “How about a drink? Wine? Beer? Sweet tea?”
“I’ll take tea, please.”
He starts pouring from a pitcher. “Can you take the pot out of the oven? I have to admit that was tough to lift with the unwieldy cast iron.”
I nod and grab the potholders. He gets himself a beer from the fridge, then tosses a trivet onto the countertop.
