Two words that shouldn’t go together but, in this case, do.
His T-shirt clings to his abs where the rain soaked through. Water runs in rivulets down well-defined and muscular arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What I said I was going to do. Closing up your shop and getting my bike. My window to leave passed, so maybe we can call a truce and just let me ride out the storm here.”
A small droplet of blood chooses that moment to drip off my cheek onto the ground, a swift reminder that this man just saved my life. “Fine. But we should get upstairs.”
Knox moves his bike as far away from the water as he can, then uses some rope to tie it to one of the racks we have installed.
“It should be okay there,” I say from the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. “We don’t tend to get a lot of water damage even though we’re on the swamp.”
He moves toward me, so composed for a man utterly soaked from head to toe. “Let’s get you upstairs.” Knox moves to pick me up again, and as much as it was a thrill, I put out my arms to stop him.
“I don’t need to be carried again.”
Knox runs his eyes over me, a slow and lazy drag. “I beg to differ.”
Before I can protest again, I’m already in the air.
Seeing I have no choice in the matter, I slip my arms around his neck, purely to help with stability and ease of carry.
And yeah, I know I’m a liar.
It’s an uncomfortable journey. The staircase is narrow because the door at the bottom has a seal on it to keep water out, even if the water level in the dock rises. But when we finally reach the top and Knox steps out into the small studio, I can see he’s impressed.
Wind noisily rattles the metal rails along the dock as he looks around.
“Wow.” Knox places me down by the door so I can toe off my sneakers, and he can ditch his boots. “This place is part apartment, part bunker.”
“It’s poured concrete, smooth and clean. My grandfather wanted a safe place for him and my family after Hurricane Charley hit. Something that would protect the business. He didn’t make a profit for years to be able to build it.”
There is a very small kitchen along one wall with wood cabinets, a compact stainless fridge, a two-burner stove, and a microwave. “There’s a backup generator in a waterproof room downstairs if we need it.” I grab a couple of painkillers and wash them down with water.
“I had no idea you guys had this place.” He slips out of his dripping-wet leather cut and hangs it on a hook by the door.
There’s a small television perched on a stand to my left, and the soft, worn rug in front of the sofa is the only respite from the concrete walls. “It can get too warm in here because of all the concrete, but I figure most people can survive anything for a few days. There’s emergency roof access in the back, so you can get outside if you need to.” I tip my head in the direction of the kitchen, where a large stack of five-gallon water bottles lives. “There’s water, and I stocked up on some fresh food, but there is plenty of dried and canned goods.”
Knox peers around the bed and looks beyond it. “That a bathroom through there?”
I nod. “It’s pretty rudimentary, though. There’s a rain barrel in there that I filled using the shower earlier…you know, in case we lose water and need something for the toilet.”
“We should shower while there’s still hot water and let our clothes dry.”
“We?” The image of me and Knox in the shower together causes a dark ache between my thighs.
Knox grins, for a second. “Not like that, sweetheart. You go first so you can clean up that blood. I’m gonna make a call.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
“Sure. Shower. You’ll have to go back outside for a call because the concrete’s too thick to get a signal.” I press the button on the small security display on the side table. It’s connected to video cameras around the property so we can watch the storm and see when things calm down. But as I raise my arm, I wince.
“For fuck’s sake,” Knox mutters. “How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I hit the ground; it’s bound to hurt.”
