Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“I’ll get it.” Evie bounces up from her chair. “Derrick’s coming by to borrow my ski rack for his trip.”
Rats!
He Who Shall Not Be Named is here to test my resolve mere moments after I decided to avoid him at all costs.
I glance down at my half-full bowl of stew, wondering if I can slurp it down before Evie gets back or if I should dash into my room with the bowl and risk Cameron and Jess noticing that I’m being weird around Evie’s brother. So far, no one seems to realize that my usual loathing for Derrick has taken a strange, “we kissed hard and never talked about it” turn, and I’d like to keep it that way.
I’m about to fake a bathroom emergency until my nemesis makes tracks, when Evie lets out a gasp and asks, “Oh my God, are you okay?” in a voice that makes my stomach ball into a worried knot.
Before I can examine how strange it is that I’m worried about Derrick—a man I would be happy to learn has landed a new hockey team management position on the opposite end of the earth, or say…Mars—he steps into the room, gushing blood from a cut on his forehead, and I leap into action.
“Jess, get the first aid kit from the bathroom,” I say. “Cameron, grab a kitchen towel and wet it with warm water on one side.” I pull out Evie’s chair, the closest to the door, and wave her and Derrick over. “Sit him here.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Derrick says, wincing as I guide him into the chair. “Just slipped on a patch of ice outside and hit my head on the steps.”
“Jesus,” Evie says, her breath rushing out. “You could have been killed!”
“I’m fine,” he says as I cup his chin and gently tip his head back.
“Ice kills people!” Evie insists.
“I think that’s icicles,” he mutters. “And you sound like the mom from A Christmas Story. You’re overreacting.”
“No, she’s not. That’s a serious cut,” I say, studying the gash on his forehead before calling to Jess, “Bring the superglue, too, Jess. If we’re lucky, we can get this closed up without a trip to the ER.”
“Don’t worry,” Cam assures Derrick as he presses the kitchen towel into my hands. “It’s medical-grade superglue.”
“I’m not worried. Thanks,” Derrick rumbles, presumably talking to Cam, but when I glance down, his bright green eyes are locked on my face.
On my lips, in particular.
And when I bring the damp side of the cloth to his forehead to wipe the blood away, he adds, “I know I’m in good hands,” in a soft, sexy voice that sends memories of all the parts of him that I shamelessly fondled during our kiss racing through my head.
I should make a run for it. Now.
I can pretend to need something else from the bathroom—something Jess won’t be able to find—and let Evie take point on patching up her brother.
Instead, I slide my fingers into Derrick’s silky, tousled brown hair and urge him to tip his head a little farther back. “I haven’t lost a patient yet. But I’m an accountant, so take that for what it’s worth.”
He smiles in response, an easy, unguarded grin that makes my heart flip and my panties damper than they were before. Warning my heart—and lady parts—to keep their shit together and remember that we hate this gorgeous jerk, I bring the rag to his wound, applying enough pressure to banish his grin.
And then Jess is there with hydrogen peroxide and gauze and all the tools I’ll need to keep Derrick’s forehead as gorgeous as ever.
I tell myself I’m taking extra care lining up the torn skin because I want Derrick to be able to find that trophy wife he’s probably looking for and have something better to do with his Friday nights than stop by our apartment.
But deep down, I know I’m doing it for selfish reasons.
Because I like looking at stupid Derrick Olsen’s stupid face.
I always have, and knowing my glutton-for-punishment heart, I probably always will.
Chapter Two
Derrick
A logical man in the midst of
a highly illogical crush.
* * *
The human brain is one tricky organ.
One minute, you’re trucking along, certain you have your shit figured out and know exactly where you’re going and how you’re going to get there. The next, you’re sideswiped by desires buried so deep inside your subconscious, you didn’t realize they were there until your brain tossed them out in front of you, like a deranged moose barreling out of the woods, intent on wrecking your car and your face.
Three months ago, I would have sworn that Harlow Raine was just my little sister’s best friend, a testy, bossy, highly opinionated woman who I was forced to tolerate for Evie’s sake, but who I found irritating in the extreme.
Three months ago, I never thought about kissing her.