Page 6 of Beneath Your Beautiful
“I’m fine.”
He set my foot down carefully, like it was made of glass. “Just twisted. Not broken,” he said, like he was an expert on the subject. “I’ll get you some ice and clean up your knee.”
I looked down at my knee. Blood oozed from it.Ugh.This was not going according to plan. I came for a job. Instead, I was playing the role of pathetic invalid.
“I’m fine. Really,” I said quickly, swinging my legs over the side of the sofa.
He scowled at me. “Stay where you are.”
“Don’t go to any more trouble. I’m sure you have a million things to do, so don’t worry about it.”
He crossed his arms over his wide chest and glowered. Impressive. This guy took scowling and glowering to a new level of badass. “I have a shitload of things to do. But you fell right in front of me. You expect me to send you on your way and not help you?”
“A lot of people would have looked the other way.”
“Yeah…well, not me.” He averted his head and exhaled sharply. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” he commanded. I watched him stride to the back of the bar, noting his perfect V-shaped torso that tapered down to slim hips and a narrow waist. Greek gods had nothing on this man.
What is going on with me?Had I hit my head when I fell? I came to Brooklyn to find myself and make my own dreams come true. Lusting after this guy wouldn’t help me do that. My heart was closed for business, and if my body betrayed me…well, that was too bad.
Job, job, job. Stay focused.
Chapter Four
Eden
Taking a few shaky breaths, I looked around the building. Exposed brick walls and high ceilings. A zinc bar with glass shelves of liquor and antique mirror splash backs spanned the wall across from me.
Sunshine streamed in from a set of open doors in the back, giving the distressed hardwood floors a honey glow. A warm June breeze carried the scent of mint and lavender and something sweet…was I imagining that? It was a bar, not an herb garden. I craned my neck to see outside. Whitewashed brick walls enclosed a paved courtyard, and dark green foliage twined around wood beams. A brightly painted food truck said Jimmy’s Tacos.
The guy who I assumed was Killian returned, loaded down with supplies—ice pack, first aid kit, water, and a black hoodie slung over his shoulder. He set everything on the table and handed me a bottle of water and two Tylenol.
“Thank you.” I washed the pills down with a few sips, closed the lid, and set the bottle on the floor next to my leather backpack. He must have brought it in. I certainly hadn’t.
Rolling up the hoodie like a bolster, he propped up my ankle and placed the ice pack on it with a bar towel underneath. As he cleaned my knee, I stared at the scar on his neck, white against his bronzed olive skin. Thick and raised. Jagged like barbwire. Like someone went for the jugular.
He placed the damp cloth on the table and rummaged around in the first aid kit, coming out with antiseptic wipes. “This might sting,” he said, ripping open the packet with his teeth. God, that was sexy. I pictured him doing the same thing with a condom wrapper. “Need a whiskey?”
I laughed a little. I could use a whiskey, but not because of my knee. Scrapes, bruises, and sprains were a regular occurrence in my childhood, thanks to my brother Sawyer who was great at coming up with acts of daring. Stupid me, I followed him into the fire every time.
“I’ll be okay.”
It stung a little, but once again, he was gentle. He tossed the wipes in the garbage can behind the bar and took a seat on the coffee table across from me. I sat up straighter and angled my body toward him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Eden. Eden Madley.”
“Killian,” he said, not bothering to mention his last name.
“I know. That’s why I’m here.” His eyes narrowed in accusation, as if I’d tricked him and he was trying to figure out what I wanted from him. “For a job,” I said quickly, which didn’t appear to set him at ease. “I heard you might be looking for a bartender. And I’m looking to be a bartender.”
He rubbed his jaw and squinted at something in the distance. It looked like he was waging a battle with himself. “I don’t put women behind the bar.”
“You think it’s a man’s job?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“That sounds sexist, you know.”
