Not that I’m forgiving Matt. That ship sailed the second I realized he would have been perfectly fine not bringing the baby goat back to the farm like I suggested.
I carefully roll over and open my eyes. It’s oddly silent. Not the silence of my apartment in the city where I can always hear the ventilation system and the hum of the refrigerator and the couple upstairs doing whatever they do at two in the morning.
This is real silence. I wonder if it’s just like this here in the mountains. Outside the window I can see trees muffled under ice and snow and the sky is still muted silver. Here, beneath the timber beams and pale plaster it seems like the world has forgotten to be loud.
My ankle hurts. It’s not excruciating, the ibuprofen Gibb gave me before bed has taken the edge off, but it's there, a steady throb that kicks up when I move. I push myself carefully to sit and look at it. It’s bandaged neatly, which I keep not quite being able to reconcile with the large, quiet man who did it.
I didn’t follow Velvet Riot, not in the same way as Neveah, but I remember seeing pictures of him on magazine covers and on tv. That guy, with the sexy grin and disheveled hair didn’tlook like the kind of guy who knew how to do anything other than melt panties with a single glance.
Hmm. Maybe he still has that power.
God, I can’t think like that. This very nice man rescued me and has given me a place to stay in the storm and the last thing he probably wants is some frumpy woman lusting over him. This guy dated supermodels, not mud streaked nobodies.
I sniff. Is that coffee?
I locate my clothes, which have been washed and are draped dry over the chair in the corner by the heating vent. I blink. He washed them. While I was sleeping. I stare at them for a moment and then notice the rubber-tipped crutches leaning against the nightstand beside my bed.
That wasn’t there last night either.
I tuck them under my arm and hobble to the chair, sinking down to put on my leggings. I debate leaving his sweatshirt on, which I slept in last night, but decide to replace it with my clean one because I need to have at least one boundary this morning. Wearing his clothes downstairs might seem desperate.
Once dressed, I open the door of my room and follow the scent of coffee to the top of the stairs. I don’t know how I’m going to maneuver the crutches and my own natural clumsiness to get down the stairs but before I can figure out a plan, Gibb’s there, taking the stairs two at time to reach me, scowling as he looks between my face and my hand on the staircase banister.
“I know you weren’t thinking of trying to get down these stairs on your own,” he says.
“You left me the crutches?—”
“Poppy,” he cuts me off before I can finish. “I left the crutches so you could get around in your room with some privacy. But the stairs are absolutely off limits.”
“I can just scootch down on my butt.”
Gibb runs a hand through his hair. “Scootch down…” he sighs. “Poppy. I can carry you down the stairs.”
“I’m too?—”
He lifts me into his arms, the crutches falling to the floor. My body settles into his and my arms go around his neck like we’ve done this a thousand times before. The silk of his hair brushes the skin on the back of my hands, and I swallow whatever it was I was going to say as he frowns at me. “If you tell me one more time that you’re too heavy, I’m going to get offended.”
“Offended?”
He starts down the stairs as if I weigh no more than Stevie. “Yes, you’re calling me weak.”
“You’re hardly weak.”
“Then trust that I can carry you wherever you need to go.”
“I don’t want to hurt your back.”
We reach the bottom of the stairs, but he keeps going into the living room and sets me down on the leather couch, positioning a pillow under my ankle to elevate it. “Hurt my back?” He gives a low chuckle. “Sweetheart, my performances lasted hours.”
I know he’s talking about being on stage, but my mind immediately goesthereand suddenly the room is too hot.
“Coffee,” I croak.
He springs up, heading for the kitchen and I watch as he pours a steaming cup of coffee before looking over at me. “How do you want it?”
Ohmygoodness. I have never had this feeling before of wanting to crawl out of my skin, a tingling awareness of attraction so intense, my whole body is buzzing. I can’t take my eyes off his muscular forearms, chiseled and tanned, the kind of arms that look capable of anything
“Poppy?” He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for me to say something and shit, he asked me a question, didn’t he?
