like a feral animal I’ve been able to coax into trusting me enough to come closer. He’s just starting to let down his guard. One false move will send him bolting. And, like a wild animal, there’s always the chance if he feels cornered he might bite. It should scare me that after all these weeks, I know so little about him.
But after that day in my classroom, I can’t make myself feel afraid of Rob.
Maybe it’s because underneath all that cold intensity, I can see his heart in the way he loves his family. It’s bigger than Florida. Or maybe it’s because I feel our connection. As much as he’s fighting it, it’s real and it’s strong. I know he won’t bite me.
But I wish he’d trust me enough to let me help him.
“Come on,” I coax, tugging on his hand.
He lets me pull him down the hallway, and I try not to think about what might happen if I just kept going all the way to my room at the end. I flick on the light switch outside the first door and pull him into the yellow-tiled bathroom.
“Sit,” I say, indicating the toilet seat.
He does, and I dig through the medicine cabinet and drawer until I have a small stockpile of first aid supplies. It’s not until I turn back to him and see the smile twitching one corner of him mouth that the logistical problem occurs to me.
“Um . . .” My eyes roll up to the ceiling because I can’t look at him as I ask, “Are you wearing underwear?”
“As far as I know.” I hear the amusement in his voice, and I can’t decide if I want to hit him or kiss him.
He thinks this is funny. I dart him in the leg and he’s laughing at me.
I yank a towel off the rod and hand it to him, trying to pretend the idea of him in his underwear isn’t making me tingle in places I shouldn’t be. “Take down your pants and put this over yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
He stands and sets the towel on the counter next to him, and I look away again as he reaches for the button of his jeans. When I hear his zipper, the sound goes straight to my groin.
I start reciting the times tables in my head, but it doesn’t block out the sound of denim sliding down skin, tightening every muscle south of my waist.
“Ready?” I ask after a minute.
“I was born ready.”
The teasing is gone from his tone, replaced by the same dark intensity as when he kissed me in my classroom. When I turn back, he’s seated with the towel draped loosely over him, but not so loosely that I can’t see the bulge underneath. I make a point of focusing all my attention on his left thigh, cleaning the tiny wound with a damp facecloth.
“It’s stopped bleeding.”
“I know.” He’s so damn smug. It’s infuriating, but also makes me want to do unmentionable things to him.
I shoot him an irritated look, then go back to dabbing on antibiotic ointment. “I wonder if you should get a tetanus shot.”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
I find my eyes gravitating to the bulge again, and force them back to the wound. “I think all it needs is a bandage.”
“I know,” he says again.
I stand and glare down at him as all my mortification and arousal collide in a steaming tangle of emotional carnage. “I feel really bad about this! Just let me help you without making me feel stupid about it, okay?”
He holds up his hand, a smile tugging at his lips. “My apologies.”
I lower my gaze and stretch a bandage over the hole in his leg. “Sorry. I just feel like such an idiot. I accuse you of stealing my car when it’s yours, then stare at you with your sister because I thought she was your—” I cut myself off when I realize where I was going.
“She was my what?” he asks.
I feel my cringe and refuse to look at him. “Nothing.”
“But you were staring. Why would you stare at my nothing?”
My eyes go automatically to the bulge under the towel again—the thing I can’t stop staring at. My breath catches when I realize it’s bigger. And to make matters worse, when he lets his knees fall wider apart, I know he noticed me looking.
“Your girlfriend, okay?” I say, because it’s only slightly less mortifying that being caught staring at his crotch, and I need