Devil You Know(8)
The devil on my shoulder gets to work the instant I stand idle. Should I be doing this? What if he won’t give me Rocco back? What if he holds me captive until Dylan gets home? I know the last thought is ridiculous, given that the man jumped our fence to beat Dylan within an inch of his life. But still, that’s how my paranoia works when it comes to men.
Hell, anyone for that matter.
My ministrations are cut short as the front door whips open, and my midnight savior stands in the opening, his arms crossed and an amused smirk on his face.
“Are you coming in, or are you going to hang out front like a zombie all day?”
I stare. I ogle. I’m pretty sure my jaw hangs as slack as a hillbilly’s.
His black T-shirt stretches in all the right places to show how much attention he pays to his level of fitness. The guy packs some weaponry under that clothing, and I’m in no doubt as to why my husband ended up the way he did.
“I j . . . just wanted to check on Rocco,” I say.
He tips his head to the side, his dark hair falling slightly across his forehead, and thumbs over a shoulder. “He’s back here.”
I take the fact he moves to the side as an invitation to go inside, and cursing myself again at my state of dress, I do.
His home smells masculine. I know the idea that a house can smell masculine is insane, but it does. Woody, earthy tones mix with the tang of engine oil, and takeaway food . . . it smells like a guy. Like a real man. A man who takes care of himself. Not my husband.
He shadows me as I creep up the hallway. I’m reminded that I don’t have the foggiest how many people live here. Is it only him? Does he have a housemate? Several? A girlfriend?
Reading my mind, he speaks up from behind me—as in right behind me. “It’s okay. We’re the only ones here.”
I glance over my shoulder, and pull a smile from somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory; I haven’t done that in a while. The minute I round the doorway into the huge living area, Rocco bounds off a makeshift bed of towels and runs toward me, tail wagging like an idiot.
“Hey, buddy.” I crouch down to hold him to my chest, inhaling the comforting smell of his fur. “How you feeling?” He lets me lift his head, and check his neck for signs of injury.
“He’s okay. I checked him when we got home, and took his collar off. He’s had it off all night, actually. I’ve only put it on now.”
My midnight savior stands casually behind me, hands in pockets as he speaks. The cut of his T-shirt tugs around his trim waist, and the denim of his jeans pulls across his thick thighs.
He watches me with a subtle interest.
“Thank you for what you did for Rocco.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t only do it for him.”
My incredible ability to not understand the obvious leaves me staring at him, blank as a sheet of fresh paper.
“I did it for you as well.” His eyes drop from mine, and he wanders through to the adjoining kitchen. “You want a coffee?”
“Love one, thanks.” How can he drop that on me, and walk away?
“Standard?”
“Yeah.” I take a seat next to Rocco, who has reacquainted himself with the towels.
“I’m kind of surprised to see you,” he calls out as he collects the necessities. “I sort of thought that douchebag would have been over here the minute he woke up.”
I surprise myself with the giggle that falls so easily at the sound of somebody naming Dylan a douchebag. “I don’t know where he went this morning.”
“Do you mind if I ask you something kind of personal?’ He stops what he’s doing, and leans both hands on the counter to face me.
The familiar heat of panic returns to my neck and chest. “What’s that?”
“Why are you still in your night wear?”
My relief can’t be hidden. I close my eyes, and smile. That, I can answer. “Haven’t been inside since you saw me last.”
He holds the teaspoon out in my direction as he connects the dots. “You mean, you spent the night outside?” He waves the teaspoon toward my house. “And now he’s gone out?”
I nod, and look back to Rocco. He stares into my eyes in a way that tells me he understands.
“He shut you outside?”
“Yeah.”
“Locked you out? No way in?”
“Exactly.”
The teaspoon clatters inside the cup with obvious tenacity. “You should have come over last night.”
“I didn’t want to presume I was welcome.” Given the tension clouding the room at this point, I start to doubt I am, even now.
“Don’t be stupid,” he hisses. “Of course you’d be welcome. He”—Midnight Savior jabs his hand toward my house—“isn’t though.”