Page 164 of Trouble from Abroad
His muscles are carved like something out of damn Greek mythology. Unreal. His jaw could give paper cuts. I’d be willing to bleed, run my hand over it, to try that theory out.
It’s… rude. That’s what it is. It’s rude to look as good as him.
His hair’s pushed back again, and now I take more notice of it. Short on the sides, thick on top, flecked with just enough gray to make my ovaries pop. His face belongs on a magazine coverandthe MI6 wanted list. The beard’s trimmed close and doing things to my better judgment.
Everything about him says control. Order. Power. A man who probably schedules his emotional breakdowns between surgeries and conference calls.
Ha! What am I thinking? A man like him doesn’t have emotional breakdowns.
It’s fine. He’s my boss. A grumpy American who clearly didn’t expect someone like me. Whoever ‘like me’ is in his mind. Judging by his current expression, I’m a surprise.Maybe a problem. I have a nagging feeling I’m not welcome here. It’s more like I’m under house arrest.
I blink myself back to reality—and he’s still there. Looking more annoyed, whispering curses. His chest rises with frustration. His wet shirt clings to his torso, begging for mercy.
“That’s why,” he says, gesturing to my earplugs. “I was knocking for so long, I thought you’d died in your sleep.”
“Well, doctor,” I begin, “your bathroom refurbishing efforts weren’t exactlyquiet,” I say, awkward but honest, “so I had to resort to these.” I take them out and raise my hands in surrender, showing off my faithful squires and praying to God they’re earwax-free. “I wasn’t dead… but I did consider pulling a hammer on you if these didn’t work.” I plaster on a smile.
“Oh.” He pauses, looking a bit embarrassed, but half smiling. “Right. Sorry.” He scratches the back of his head, flexing his biceps. He’s got to stop doing that. His whole body is highly disturbing; it blocks the doorway and all my common sense. “I didn’t consider that. Got too used to being alone in the house these past weeks, I guess. My apologies.”
I still sound rough from sleep, but I force myself to speak, anything to keep from ogling him. “Er… can I help you with something?”
“Gunn’s insisting we go out for dinner,” he grunts, arms crossing in front of his chest.
Sweet Jesus. My brain blue-screens. The entire English language flatlines at the sight of his rippling forearm muscles—and veins—on display. Yep, it’s the veins. The veins render me mute.
I look down. Not at his legs. Or are those tree trunks? Stop, you’re being too obvious. Eyes up, woman. Be cool. Be professional. Think about spreadsheets or… porridge. Yeah. Porridge, save me.
“Okaaay…” It’s the best I can come up with, not entirely sure of what I’m agreeing to anymore.
I think I’m only fit for this job if he’s not around. I can only be responsible for the well-being of a child if I’m distraction-free, which means Dr. Preston Jett needs to stay at least fifty feet away from me at all times. And dry. Arms always relaxed, hanging at his sides. A restraining order might be in the cards. Mutual, probably, although for different reasons.
When he talks again, my chin is down, and I’m checking out his quads. My head jerks up, and I wipe the edge of my mouth, praying I didn’t drool. I just woke up. It could be from my sleep. “I’m sorry, what?” I blink shamelessly, finally managing eye contact again.
“I said, I’m not done in the gym, so I thought you’d like to shower first. There’s only one bathroom, so we need to take turns.”
Do we, doctor? Do we?
I shake my head, willing the horniness to fall out of my ears. I need to get a grip, real fast, or I’ll have to quit before I even meet Lily—or New York, for that matter. I’ll have April send me postcards from the places I never got to see.
“Yeah, of course,” I say instead, shoving my hormones back in their cage. “He messaged me too. Remind me again what time the reservation is?”
I leave him and his answer at the door, turning around to rummage through my bags. Makeup, toiletries… Hmm, where’s my exfoliating cream? Maybe I can scrub away these pervy thoughts.
It might be my imagination—or wishful thinking—but I feel his eyes on me. Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly self-conscious about my ass being up in the air when he startles me, saying, “You don’t need to haul an entire suitcase to the bathroom. I’ve got you everything you need there. April supervised my visit to the store, so I’m sure you’ll be pleased.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Did she now?” I smile. That’s sweetandunexpected. “Were there any breakdowns in the skincare aisle?”
He snorts. “More than I care to admit. But I survived, and now you have a toner. Not that I know what it does.”
I glance at the bags in my hands, then back at him. “That was very thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
“You’ll be living here for the next few months, Mia. The least I can do is make you comfortable.” His eyes capture mine and hold me there. I haven’t decided if the speckles in his green irises are blue or gold. I don’t think it’s safe to stare too long to figure it out.
My instincts urge me to fight his hold on me, so after a torturous second or two, I blink the spell away and focus on something else.
I pull a few outfits out of my case to straighten a bit on hangers and set their matching shoes by the bed. “Again, that’s very kind of you. You didn’t need to bother with all that.”
“Not a problem. Anyway.” His voice cuts through my hazy brain. Dr. Preston drops his arms from the doorframe, and that deflates me a little. It was as if he wastrapping us both in here, and I liked that more than I care to admit. “Everything you need is in there. And more, probably,” he reiterates.
