Calista sat up next to him and hunched over her knees. “Yeah, we’re fine,” she called to the driver. She cracked her eyes open and rubbed the back of her head. “I think so anyway,” she mumbled. “Ow.”
The diesel bus engine growled, and gears ground together. “Stay outta the road. You might not be so lucky next time.”
Andy gritted his teeth, biting back the urge to demand if the asshole had gotten his drivers license from the local mini-mart. Instead, he helped Calista to her feet and shuffled to the opposite side of the street. The bus roared off, the placard on the side displaying New Orleans Ghost Tours in wavy, haunted-type letters surrounded by a disturbingly familiar smoky haze.
Calista swayed next to him.
“Whoa.” He took her arm. “Steady there.”
“Yeah. I guess I hit my head a little harder than I realized.”
“Let’s get you looked at.” He guided her to her yard and led her to her back door. Taking her keys, he let them inside and eased her onto the couch. He pulled out his cell phone. “Who’s your doctor?”
“Really,” she said. “I’m all right. No blurry vision or anything. Just give me some ibuprofen and I’ll be fine.”
Frowning, he stuffed his cell back into his pocket and went to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. Turning, he strode down the hallway to the bathroom and took a pain medication bottle from the medicine cabinet. He glanced up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. When had he learned where everything was in Calista’s house? And if he knew that, then why the hell wasn’t he a bigger part of her life?
Returning to the living room, he handed her the water and shook out two pills for her. She gulped them down and set the glass on the coffee table.
He pulled out his cell phone again and dialed her work number. Crap, he knew that, too. “Hey, this is Calista Page’s neighbor, Andrew Mitchell. I’m just calling to let you know she won’t be in today.”
“Is she all right?” came a female voice over the line.
“She fell and hit her head. She says it’s nothing to worry about. She should be fine by Monday.”
“Oh, wow. Okay,” the female said. “Tell her we hope she feels better.”
“Thanks.” He ended the call and dropped his phone into his pants pocket.
Calista gave him a small smile, and the urge to kiss her flooded his veins.
“Still watching over me.”
“You were nearly run down by a bus. I’d be an asshole not to.” Bending, he snatched the empty glass from the table and strode to the kitchen, putting a little distance between them.
“You were almost hit, too. Maybe I should take care of you as well.” Her voice flowed to him, her words intensifying his craving. “We could take care of each other.”
Andy set the cup in the sink. She’s talking about health stuff. Not sex, not stroking one another, not making each other come. He shook his head. Damn, I am such an asshole. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
The sound of her shoes clicking over the hardwood floor reached his ears, and he moved to the kitchen doorway.
“If I’m not going to work,” she said as she headed toward the laundry room at the end of the hall, “I’m getting into something more comfortable.”
He stared, her movements in the small room casting shadows along the wall. Hell, if she hadn’t wanted him to watch, she would’ve closed the door. But when her skirt landed near the doorway and he glimpsed one hip, the arc of her waist, and up to her shoulder, and mouthwatering curve of her bottom—My God. Is she wearing a thong?—he swallowed. Guilt battled lust. To look or not to look? Damn difficult question. The hard-on knocking at his zipper answered.
He sidestepped back to the sink and filled the glass he’d just set there with water, gulping down the cool liquid in an attempt to quench the fire in his pants. If she walked out here and found him with a stiffy, she might…she might…. Hell, he didn’t know. But after being dumped by that tattooing asshole Ben, she might not be very enthusiastic.
Get it together, man. He glanced down at the bulge in his jeans. We gotta work as a team. Ease her into this. Not scare the shit outta her. When his body didn’t respond appropriately, he began mumbling. “Oil, flour, onion chopped, green bell pepper chopped, celery diced, garlic cloves minced—”
“What did you say?”
“What?” Andy looked up and clutched the counter. “Nothing. Just listing ingredients for Seafood Gumbo.” And trying to get rid of a hard-on—which, by the way, those tiny jeans shorts and tight T-shirt showing off every hot curve you own are not helping. “How are you feeling?”