When he turns back to me, the girl he spoke to uses her phone to take a photo of him.
Jack pushes his fingers through his hair, falling into the seat next to mine. His fingers lace with mine, and he pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing each of my knuckles.
He abruptly stands and drags me out of my seat. “Fuck this. I’m taking you to my house.”
SEVEN
Jackson keeps one hand on the wheel and one entwined with mine. “I’ll call Doc. He’ll come out and fix you.”
He’s said some variation of that sentence at least three times since he bundled me into his car.
I flip the visor down and pull his shirt away from my head. “I have no idea what kinds of prices doctors who make house calls charge. I really don’t think it’s that bad. I can probably put a butterfly bandage over it and it’ll be fine.”
“That’s your face. No. You need to have it looked at. What if they need to do some kind of plastic surgery to keep it from scarring?” He squeezes my hand, massaging the back of it with his thumb. “No. Don’t worry about the money. I got it. It’s not a problem.”
“Plastic surgery?” I push the bloody hair out of the way. “No. It’s not that big. And it’s right in the hairline. A scar probably won’t show.”
“Humor me, will you?”
Humor him? It’s my head we’re talking about.
The wound is about an inch long, but it might be bigger. Damn. Freaking plastic surgery? That’s going to cost about a million dollars I’ll never have.
He pulls into the driveway of a modern, multi-level home. My stomach quivers as my gaze moves from the seemingly freshly stained wooden doors of his garage to Jackson, and back again.
Good gracious. This house. Jackson Tremaine. What am I even doing with him, much less at his home? He’s so far out of my league it isn’t funny.
At the door, Jackson stops. “Bull is harmless, but big.”
“Bull?”
He opens the door, but before he can step inside, a freaking gigantic dog tumbles outside. Jack takes hold of the thing’s collar before it can run me over.
I take two steps backward. “He’s—he’s the size of a small car.”
The monster has old-man jowls. A string of slobber hangs from one corner of his mouth.
Jack scratches the beast behind his ears. “Yeah, he’s a rescue dog, so there’s some debate on exactly what breeds make up his family tree. But, we’re fairly sure he’s got some bull mastiff.”
“Thus the name Bull.” I tentatively hold out my palm to let him sniff.
He doesn’t smell my hand; he licks it with his soft, slimy tongue. Ew.
“Down, boy. Wait to kiss the girls after you get to know them for more than thirty seconds.” He ruffles the fur on top of the dog’s head.
Once inside, he lets the dog loose. I hold still while it smells my shoes, my legs…my crotch. “Oh, no you don’t.”
I push the dog’s cold nose away from my lady parts, my fingers sinking into his velvety, whiskered cheeks—do dogs have cheeks?
Jackson grabs his collar and pulls him back. “Now, Bull. You know better than that. I’m the only one who gets to do that in this house.”
Heat sneaks up my chest and onto my cheeks at the image that brings to my mind—Jackson with his face at the apex of my thighs.
Jack leads me inside the huge, open floor plan home. Bull follows us every step of the way, a rather large and well-loved stuffed animal hanging out of his mouth by its leg. We pass through two living areas, both furnished with luxurious sofas, chairs, and shiny, glass tables. From there, we enter a chef’s kitchen.
How does he keep the tables so clean with such a slobbery dog?
Jackson doesn’t let go of my hand until he seats me at the granite island on one of the four sleek, black leather stools. “Here, let me get a towel.”
Bull sits two feet from me. His eyes follow every move Jack makes, occasionally darting to me as though he wonders where I fit into his world. He’s not the only one.
Jack pulls a kitchen towel from a drawer and turns on the water. He lathers up well and rinses. Then he wets the corner of the towel.
“Nice house.” As if that isn’t an understatement. “You lived here long?”
“Thanks. I guess I’ve been here for three—no—four years this coming March.”
I hold out my hand for the towel, but he pulls it out of my reach. “Let me.”
“It’s an open wound. Don’t touch it.”
“You can’t scare me. I’m not worried about getting a little blood on my hands.”
I take the warm towel from him and press it to the sore spot at the top of my forehead. “I’ll wait for the doctor, if you absolutely think I need one. Otherwise, I’d rather wash it, bandage it, and be done.”