My eyes start to water, and I really just want to have a tantrum right now like I used to back in the day, but I’m an adult, and I need to face the consequences of my actions.
I drag myself over to the ... uh, body-person-thing, and keep my gaze tracked on his chest.
Because it is a he, like a he-he. A man. Full-grown and everything, and if the stretching of the fabric of his navy t-shirt is anything to go by, a man. Which makes it all worse, like I may have just killed one of the finer specimens of male in the whole entire city of Montreal, and fuck it, they’re so hard to find.
Girls have enough problems finding out if a dude is gay or not, especially when they’re stacked like this wannabe Viking sprawled spread-eagled next to me on the street. And I hit him with my car.
Focus!
Right. I’m going to have to touch him, aren’t I? Check the beat of his pulse? As if I’m a freaking doctor or something and know what the burning hell I’m doing. I really wish I’d watched more episodes of Grey’s. TV should have prepared me for this.
Did his chest just rise and fall? It did, it did! I’d put my right hand on the Bible and swear on it, God strike me down and all that shit.
He groan-grumbles, and my hands flutter around him like stupid ass butterflies trying to find a place to land. Well, at least he made a sound, which has gotta be good.
I swear to the Virgin Mary, if Nona Imelda were still alive, I’d chuck her in an old folks’ home and make sure she’d never see the light of day. But revenge will have to wait, and I’ll see her in hell when my time comes. Christ, stupid old hag, cursing her own grand-daughter! Stupid Italian bullshit!
The Viking lets out another groan, and both his giant hands come up to cover his face, then start rubbing at his temples. Fucker wasn’t even wearing a helmet... then again, I don’t see a bike, but it does mean I can’t pedal-to-the-metal it out of here anytime soon. I do have something called a conscience. Maybe. Only on good days.
The fact is, I’m a bleeding heart for everyone and anyone, and after seeing what my best friend, Sera Delos, went through, well, let’s just say that my emotions are stuffed deep, deep down inside of me, like, deeper than the Mariana’s Trench (I googled that earlier today).
Could you pay attention to the hunk of man in pain three feet from you? Thanks.
“Hey...” I whisper, and clear my throat, because fucking hell, I am a grown woman and deal with anything the world throws at me.
“Hey... you okay?” I ask, and feel like such a tool. I hit him with my fucking car! Of course he’s not okay!
“Please tell me you’re okay. I’ll wait.”
The Viking puts his hands down back at his sides, and his eyes slowly creak open only to slam shut again. After a few seconds, he does it again, and this time it’s permanent. And shit, I’m not wearing my sexy underwear today, because wow. Just wow.
Yeah, I totally would’ve felt bad about killing him.
His eyes are a peculiar green – the shade of budding leaves. His face is pretty much pure perfection, too. While this guy doesn’t induce panty meltdown with just one look like MacLaine does, he is injured, and he just looks like he needs a warm-up. The line of his jaw is coated with dark stubble, and the length of his hair looks like it would graze his chin if he were upright. Pity I don’t see any tattoos or piercings – I think Sera took the last hottie left.
My heart beats a little faster when our eyes connect. Do I know this guy? Does he live nearby? Hell, how didn’t I notice him, and invite him over? Chain him to the bed?
“What the fuck?” is all he says, and I stop my ogling. I’ve already saved his face in the database of my brain for my spank bank later.
“What the fucking fuck just happened?”
Wow. Even his voice is supreme. All deep, and almost-growly. I swear all my nerve endings stand at attention and my vagina quivers at the prospect of the Viking saying my name.
Then he really looks at me, but the kind of look that has my heart racing and blood pooling in my cheeks. Like, hello? I do not blush. Guys just don’t have that effect on me anymore.
“Are you the genius that hit me?” The Viking asks, but basically says. He turns his head back straight and glares up at the darkening sky. October is here, and my ass on the cold pavement is making me shiver. He must be running at a higher temperature, otherwise I don’t understand the whole t-shirt thing. I wouldn’t mind being held in those arms.
I clear my throat and think of how I’m going to explain myself. I certainly will not tell him I was checking out my reflection, and looked away for all of two seconds, and he came gliding across the seemingly deserted street (probably, I wasn’t looking), and caused a serious dent on my Mustang’s hood. Because now that he’s okay, I’m going to have to pay for that out of my own pocket, my insurance won’t cover it. Too many claims in the past year. Too bad they can’t insure against pure bad luck. Assholes!