Just One Kiss - J. Saman Page 0,6
can’t tell which, but it’s rugged and masculine and sexy. Earthy almost, like musk and snow and sandalwood and goddamn pine trees.
Not a dream.
Miles Ford.
Is this what he smells like?
Blinking open my eyes, the first thing I see is a raging fire in a huge stone fireplace. The second is the large chocolate lab sitting on a plush white rug directly in front of the fire, staring directly at me. I blink some more, my hand reaching up to gingerly touch the cut on my forehead, only to find it covered with a bandage.
I shift as quietly as I can against the pillow my head is resting on and peek down at myself. I’m on a couch, not a bed, covered in a heavy white down comforter, still wearing the clothes I left New York in.
How long have I been unconscious for?
Freaking blood. That’s the third time I’ve passed out from the sight of it.
My parents and sisters must be going out of their minds.
I shift some more, surreptitiously glancing around and taking in my surroundings. It’s a large cabin-style home without the horrendous stuffed animal head decorative accents. Actually, this place has a lot of dark woods, brown leather, and white linen with soft throw pillows in navy blue and gray. The art on the walls is out of this world gorgeous.
The house is pretty and a bit unexpected, if I’m being honest.
It’s Restoration Hardware meets Vermont in a really cool way.
The dog whimpers in my direction, wagging its tail excitedly, and I sit up slowly, not sure what to make of the fact that I’m likely in Miles’s home. Sliding my legs along the fabric sofa, I wince as I move my knee and then practically yelp out in pain as I try to bend it. I don’t even remember hitting it, but then again, I was a bit distracted with the car crash and the blood pouring down my face.
The dog gets up, padding directly over to me and panting right in my face. “You’re sweet, but your dog breath is not.” It makes some kind of noise and sets its face down on my lap. “Sorry. That was rude. We just met and I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I absently run my fingers through its thick, soft fur. “Where is your owner?” I ask.
“I’m here,” a smooth, whisky baritone announces behind me and I catch the sound of bare feet against hardwood floors headed in my direction. For a moment, nerves get the best of me, my heart jumping up into my chest while my belly does some kind of weird Macarena-esque dance.
Miles Ford.
I haven’t seen him in what? Eight years?
Not since graduation night. Not since—
“How are you feeling?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts, that deep russet voice of his bathed in concern. Did he sound like this when we were teenagers? Likely not.
Tamping down the rush of nerves, I look up. And up. And eventually find his intense navy blue eyes wrapped in thick dark frames. He has a beard, the one I think I embarrassingly mentioned to him earlier, and he’s much taller and broader than the boy from my memories. Definitely hotter too, with his warm brown hair in wild disarray and face that even through the well-trimmed beard, boasts a strong chiseled jaw. He’s wearing a thermal gray shirt that hugs his muscular arms and chest like they’re lovers who hate to be separated.
Unfortunately, that’s where my perusal ends as he’s staring expectantly at me, head now tilting to the side and eyes that look as though they’re questioning the extent of my head injury. Right. Because he asked me a question and I’ve remained silent while ogling him like a drooling buffoon.
Super classy, London. Way to slay it, girl.
“I’m fine,” I finally manage, though I’m not entirely sure that’s true. “Considering I was in a car accident, stuck in the snow, smashed my head, and somehow hurt my knee.” I shut my mouth, wondering where the fuck my filter went.
“I cleaned and bandaged your head. It’s a good gash, but it doesn’t need stitches. It had pretty much stopped bleeding by the time I got you here. I couldn’t check your knee without removing your jeans, and I figured I’d leave that honor to you so you or your boyfriend wouldn’t have to kick my ass later.” He smirks, the sight of it doing funny things to my insides.
I blink at him. Is he fishing? “And I appreciate that,”