you right in the face.”
I hear something crinkle, then what sounds like chewing. Figures. Mia’s always hungry. In law school she’d eat an entire quart of Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk after every exam. She was always trying to get me to join in. With my own quart, of course. Sharing hers was out of the question. But unlike her I don’t have the metabolism of a hummingbird.
She takes another bite and speaks through a mouthful of whatever she’s gorging on. “Now quit stalling and go get your man.”
“He’s not...”
The line clicks off, and I let the rest of the sentence trail away. No point protesting to deaf—or AWOL—ears. Stuffing the phone in my bag, I insert the key in the lock, turn it and push the door open a crack.
“Jake? Roscoe?” There’s no answer from man or beast, so I give the door another shove and I take a step inside. “It’s Ainsley. I’m here to walk the dog.”
Still no response. I’m starting to wonder if Jake’s done something stupid like try to take Roscoe out himself when the furry monster pokes his head out of one of the bedrooms and comes lumbering toward me.
“Hey, boy.” I kneel down to rub one of his ears. He likes that. Another of the things I’ve learned about Roscoe in our getting-to-know-you period. “Where’s Jake?”
As if on cue, a loud crash comes from what I assume is the master bedroom at the far end of the loft, followed by a flurry of swears in Jake’s throaty, masculine voice. My brain is instantly swamped with images of him lying on the cold, hard wooden floor in a puddle of blood. Or close to losing consciousness in the tub, his injured arm twisted awkwardly underneath him, the pain too much for him to bear. Don’t most at-home accidents happen in the bathroom?
I jump up and sprint toward the source of the commotion, Roscoe at my heels. But when I burst through the door into Jake’s bedroom, I immediately feel like an intruder. There’s too much of him here. His minty, soapy, supersexy scent. The half-open book he was reading—the latest Jack Reacher mystery—on the nightstand. The imprint of his body on the massive memory foam mattress. What’s nowhere in sight, however, is the man himself.
Another crash and a second barrage of profanity shifts my attention to the master bath. I shove down the feeling that I’m trespassing, drop my purse on the bed and sidle up to the partially open door. Some things are more important than privacy. Like personal welfare.
“Um, Jake,” I call awkwardly through the space between the door and the frame. “It’s Ainsley. Everything okay in there?”
Roscoe, who hasn’t left my side, adds a concerned bark.
“Everything’s fine.” Jake’s voice is clipped, strained. He’s obviously in pain, but too damn stubborn to admit it. Typical tough guy. “Go walk the dog. I don’t want him peeing on my rug. Again.”
I’m about to clap back with a snappy rejoinder—something about how the first time wasn’t my fault—when I hear crash number three, followed by some even more creative swearing.
“Doesn’t sound fine to me.” I grab the doorknob, ready to pull it the rest of the way open. “I’m coming in. Cover your naughty bits.”
“My naughty bits?” He chuckles.
Laughter. That’s got to be a good sign. Still, I’m not leaving without checking on him. “You know what I mean. You’ve got three seconds to hide the family jewels.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want? We could pick up where we left off yesterday.”
No, I’m not sure. But I’m not letting him know that. “That’s a bit cocky, isn’t it? From out here, it doesn’t sound like you’re in any condition to get it on.”
“I’m a man. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Ah, so that’s how that little thing works. Mind over matter.”
“Who are you calling little?” he asks with a laugh, but this time it morphs into a groan.
“That’s it. I’m coming in, whether you’re decent or not.”
I shove the door open and step into the biggest freaking bathroom I’ve ever seen. It’s like a palace, all shiny and sterile and manly with pale gray tile, polished brass fixtures and a rich walnut vanity. A glass shower big enough for a four-person orgy dominates the far wall. It would be a picture fit for Architectural Digest—if it wasn’t for the man slumped against the vanity, with what looks like the contents of one—or two—of the drawers strewn on the floor