Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Waverly
Warm, muted interior lights shouldn’t hurt my eyes so much. And yet here we are.
Wincing, I flick a throbbing look at the vertical world swimming into focus, recognize nothing, and lever myself upright.
A neat, tidy, and utterly unfamiliar living room surrounds me, parts of it shadowed by the darkening sky beyond the windows, but somehow still inviting.
I run a slow look over it all—the sofa I’m sitting on, an armchair, a rocking chair that looks handmade, and a massive plasma TV with a gaming console tucked in the unit underneath it.
Framed photographs of panoramic seascapes and landscapes hang on the walls, and a large bookshelf demands attention beside me, its shelves stuffed with books.
I recognize some titles: Stephen King’s IT, Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, a slew of Jack Reacher books.
Some seem very firefighter specific, and some look older than dirt.
One in particular catches my eye, and, wincing again, I shove myself from the sofa and cross to it.
I tilt my head to the side and read the title, brushing my fingers over the creased spine.
Historia Animalium.
“Huh,” I mutter. “Why the hell does a firefighter have a book first published in the 1500s on animals?”
“My mum was a vet,” a deep, familiar voice rumbles behind me.
I squeal and spin around. And then stagger sideways as my head continues to spin after I stop.
The man who helped me/kidnapped me—I’m not sure which yet—destroys the space between the living room door and the bookshelf in four massive strides and closes a firm but gentle hand around my upper arm, his eyes locking on mine. “I’ve got you.”
The declaration caresses my senses a heartbeat before a memory smashes into me. Heat prickles over my skin, and a weird fluttering begins deep in my stomach. Staring at him, my pulse pounds in my ears.
Did I… Did I tell him I wanted to kiss him? Oh God, did I tell him I wanted to fuck—
I jolt back a step. My butt smacks into the bookshelf, and his hand whips out and snatches a falling book just before it strikes my head.
“Whoa,” I whisper, gaping up at him. My almost unconscious self had it right. This guy would be amazing to—
“Maybe I should give you my spare helmet.” A smile tugs at his lips as he returns the book to the top shelf.
The move brings his upper body closer to me.
I draw in a deep, slow breath. He smells of soap, clean clothes, and subtle deodorant.
I feather my fingertips along the side of his wide, muscled neck before I can stop myself.
He becomes still, his stare locking on mine, his hand braced against the top shelf. He towers over me, his heat radiating into me.
With a swift breath, I jerk my hand back and look away. “Sorry. I thought I saw a mosquito.”
Liar.
“Hmm,” he murmurs without lowering his arm. Holding me imprisoned with his gaze, he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from my temple. “How is your head?”
Full of images of you making love to me…
“Woozy,” I reply on a scratchy breath. I swallow, clear my throat, and try again. “What hit me?”
Levering himself from the bookshelf, he points across the room at the small lamp table next to the armchair. On it sits my camera.
My eyebrows shoot up, and I hurry over to it. There’s not a scratch on it. I turn it on and check the memory. The last shot on there is a blur of browns and greens. The shot before that is a clear and sharp image of half the Giant Dragonfly flying out of the frame.
“You’re an incredible photographer,” he states, and my ears—and my body—tell me he’s making his way in my direction. “Some of the wildlife shots you have on there—”
I turn, frowning. My head tries to liquify into a whirlpool, but I ignore it. “You looked at what’s on there? Invasion of privacy, much?”
He stops a few feet away, slips his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans, and shrugs. How does a mere human get a chest so impressive? And biceps? And forearms? And thighs? What would it be like to have those thighs between mine as we move together on his bed?
“I’ve been dealing with my own invasion of privacy of late,” he says, jerking me back from the dirty contemplation.
Returning my camera to the table, I narrow my eyes. “So you really did think I was paparazzi? Why?”
He studies me for a heartbeat. “You have no clue who I am?”
My next sexual adventure?
“My hero?” I say.
He laughs in return, and I want to soak in the warm, relaxed sound. “You probably wouldn’t have been attacked by your camera if I didn’t yell at you.”
A tingle of contented warmth licks through me. Damn, I like talking with him. I grin. “Well, there is that.”
He cocks his head, a quizzical smile tugging his lips. “Can I ask, do I detect an American accent? Or Canadian?” Rubbing at the back of his neck, he lets out a soft snort. “I’m sorry for not knowing the difference.”
“American.” A tight knot twists in my stomach, as it always does when something makes me think of my father. “But I’ve lived here since I was sixteen.”
“I like it.” His Adam’s apple jerks up and down his throat, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. That probably sounds—”
“Thank you,” I say, taking a step toward him. Drawn towards him, more like it. I want to slide my palms up his chest, bury my fingers in his hair and kiss him until—
A giddy wave crashes over me, and I wince and stumble back a step. My knee collides with the arm of the chair, and I drop into it, letting out a hitching yelp as the shock vibrates through my body into my head.
He’s crouching in front of me before I realize it, worry eating up his face. “Alright, Waverly,” he murmurs, gently tucking a strand of my hair behind my ears, his eyes searching mine. “I’m taking you to the Hartley Ridge doc. She owes me a favor, and I’m worried about your concussion. That okay?”
I open my mouth to say, Okay. That’s the sensible thing to do. Let’s go.
But instead, what comes out is, “I’d rather stay here. With you.”