15 Birdie #3
Not letting him get far, I run my fingers through his dark hair, feeling for any bumps or bleeding along his scalp. He groans and tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut. Both his hands go to my waist, fingers splayed over my hips. “What happened before I arrived? I heard you shouting.”
Slowly, he blinks his eyes open. Jaw tight, he growls low in his throat. “I was attacked. Just trying to take out the trash. Fucking dead piece of shit.”
“Did you recognize him?”
He shakes his head, wincing in pain at the movement.
I relax my hold on him, shifting my hands to his shoulders. “I couldn’t see much from the landing either. Big guy all in black with a hood pulled low over his face, right?”
His hands stroke along the curve of my hips, fingers bunching the silky fabric of my top until he’s brushing bare skin. “You got a better look than me.”
I bite my lip, trying to focus on anything but the way he’s touching me. This is no time to be turned on by the feel of my boss’s hands. The man just survived a near-death experience.
Speaking of hands . . .
“I think he wore gloves,” I blurt, shifting his hands off my hips.
“Gloves?”
“Yeah, they looked like creepy skeleton hands. You know, the kind some biker poser would wear to try and look cool.” He reaches for me again and I gently bat his hands away. “Jasper, we really should call the police, don’t you think?”
“Why?”
“Seriously? Because a strange man wearing half a shitty Halloween costume was just strangling you! The only reason you didn’t die is because Pickles freaked out and got me to open the door in time. You were just lying out there and—oh god—” My hand flutters over my chest.
“What?”
“The Death card,” I cry, gesturing to the counter full of tarot decks. “The card I read for you. I didn’t—I mean, Phoebe said I can’t actually predict your death but—Jasper, did I do this to you?”
“No.” Reaching out with both hands again, he reels me in to stand between his spread legs. “That’s not how tarot works.”
“I know that in the rational sense,” I rush to say, my hands dropping back to his shoulders. “But I think I might be slipping into shock. My adrenaline is definitely wearing off. And seeing you lying there was really fucking scary. I swear, I wasn’t trying to kill you—”
“I know,” he says over me, soothing me with a touch. “You had nothing to do with this, Birdie. It was just a random mugger, okay? Some punk kid looking for an easy wallet grab. Joke’s on him because I haven’t carried a wallet on this island for two decades.”
I roll my eyes, not mollified in the slightest. I swear, that is the last time I ever pick up a tarot deck.
He can fire me if he wants, but it’s too spooky for me.
For the rest of my life, I know I’ll replace the image of that king lying on the ground, missing his crown.
I’ll always see Jasper Prescott lying spread-eagle on the cobblestones.
After a moment, he frowns, his hand skirting from my face, down my neck, to my shoulder. “Birdie, you’re cold . . . and wet.”
I fight a shiver. “Yeah, well it’s raining outside. You’re wet too.”
He glances down, only just noticing the damp state of his own clothes.
“My focus was on you not dying,” I add. “I didn’t exactly pause to throw on a raincoat before I rushed to your aid.”
His heated gaze trails down, taking in the thin straps of my blush pink cami.
It’s some knock-off for silk, cut in a “V” deep enough to show a little cleavage.
My braid is a wispy mess, tugged over one shoulder.
And the rain did just enough to dampen my top to leave my pierced nipples peeking through the fabric.
He looks back up at me, his expression impossible to read. “Thank you.”
That’s not what I was expecting him to say. “It was nothing.”
He rises from his chair and the mood in the room instantly shifts. When he was seated, I could feel like I commanded an ounce of power. I stood taller than him, I was more mobile than him. Now he towers over me, holding me in his snare. “Birdie, look at me.”
Holding my breath, I look up. He looks more like Jasper now. His eyes are clear and focused. His color looks better too, his pallor less ghostly pale. There’s no mottling or discoloration around his neck. Not yet anyway. He’s very lucky.
“Thank you,” he says again. “You saved my life. I owe you a debt.”
I smile weakly. “There’s no debt. I know you’d do the same for me.”
His dark brows narrow, jaw clenched tight.
I don’t know what compelled me to say it.
We’re still just two strangers who’ve only exchanged a handful of sentences over the last few days.
Phoebe is our only real tether. And yet, the words are spoken and I know I meant them.
Jasper Prescott is a man of honor. Placed in my position, I know he would have charged down those steps for me.
His direct gaze pins me to the floor. “Birdie . . .” He whispers my name like a caress.
I don’t know who moves first. One moment, I’m looking into his eyes, the next we’re gasping for air against each other’s lips, kissing like we’ll both die if we stop.