TAMING HOLLYWOOD'S BADDEST BO- Max Monroe Page 0,21

lost in staring at the tiny waterfalls flowing in front of his mesmerizing eyes.

I still haven’t answered when the ass end of the boat starts to kick around in the current and he jumps up with a muttered, “Goddammit.”

Bailey, Luca’s sweet Labrador, fills his void pretty quickly, though, licking at every inch of available skin on my face.

I welcome his doggie breath—thank God I’m alive to feel it.

Luca whips the boat around from somewhere at the rear and cranks up the engine, headed back in the direction of his house. Bailey keeps me company as I stare out toward the water and try to wrap my brain around how I managed to find myself here, soaking wet and banged-up.

I don’t know what made him do it, but I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Luca Weaver hadn’t come motoring down the river when he did.

My gaze moves to him.

Luca’s jaw is just as firm as it was when I first walked up the deck stairs to find him, but it’s different somehow—edgier. His beautiful blue eyes are nearly black as night, and his entire demeanor vibrates with way more than irritation.

I let myself relax into the sound of the engine and the small waves that lap against the side of the boat. Exhausted from travel, stress, a level of physical exercise I’m in no way accustomed to, and nearly dying in cold, salty Alaskan water, I close my eyes, and without even realizing I’m doing it, fall asleep.

When I open my eyes again, my body is being jostled gently as Luca picks up my arm and puts a small, wet rag to the cuts and scrapes all over it. I blink several times and quickly realize I’m no longer in the rain, no longer on the boat, not even outside.

I’m inside. On a bed. My clothes are still wet, but my socks are off of my feet—my boots already long gone in the river—and what feels like a heated blanket covers me from neck to foot. And a handsome, broody man tends to my wounds with the kind of tenderness I would’ve never imagined was possible for the same Luca Weaver who told me to fuck right off his property earlier today.

“W-what time is it?” My voice sounds scraggly to my own ears. I swallow thickly around my dry throat.

“Nearing ten in the evening.”

Good Lord. That means I’ve been out for what, like, two or three full hours?

I mean, I can’t be sure how long my near-death experience lasted out there in the river, but considering my idea of cardio is a movie marathon, I highly doubt I would’ve lasted too long.

“Where am I?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Where do you think you are?”

Smartass.

“I’m guessing this is the inside of your cabin.”

“You guess right.” He nods and then refocuses on whatever scratches he’s cleaning on my arms.

Holy hell. What a day. One that, scarily enough, could have been your last fucking day.

I grimace at that the morbid thought.

This guy might be a broody bastard, but he literally saved my life. It’s hard to still be pissed at him for all the f-bombs and threats when he’s the reason I didn’t meet my fate at the bottom of an icy grave.

“Thanks for…” I start out softly, making his eyes jump back to mine. “You know, rescuing me and everything.”

Luca glances at me and back at the cuts on my arm. “You’re welcome.”

“How did you, um…” He flicks his eyes back to mine at my pause. “How did you find me out there in the water?”

He jerks his head at the snoring dog lying next to me on the bed. “Bailey’s a good tracker. Knew the direction you went, but he picked up on your scent when we got close. Plus, you were yellin’ loud enough, I imagine just about everyone in Alaska heard you.”

“I was drowning!” I snap in my defense. A tiny, unbelievable smirk finds its way onto the corner of his mouth.

“You were on the shoreline.”

“Do you do this often?”

He quirks a brow. “Do what?”

“Save uninvited guests from a fate of dying in the middle of the great Alaskan wilderness in icy waters and then berate them for handling it the wrong way?”

A laugh escapes his throat. “Honestly, this is a first for me.”

I don’t know why that response makes my chest turn all gooey, but it does. I mean, it’s not even nice. It’s human decency at best, but the fact that Mr. Surly