Page 15 of Glitter Rose
“Maybe.” His eyes flick to mine for a second, then back to his task.
I should leave. Give him privacy. Instead, I am rooted to the spot as he shrugs out of his jacket, revealing arms corded with muscle and tattoos.
My mouth goes dry.
“Something else you need, princess?” His tone is neutral, but there’s a knowing edge to it.
“Just, uh, waiting.” The words come out breathier than I intended. “So, I can clean up.”
He reaches behind his neck, grabbing his t-shirt and stripping it off.
Holy. Shit.
His torso is a landscape of lean muscle and scars: A jagged line across his left shoulder, a puckered circle near his collarbone, smaller marks scattered across skin tanned several shades darker than mine, and a metal dog tag hangs between defined pecs.
My brain short-circuits. I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I can’t stop staring.
“You have something that might fit?” His voice drops lower, rougher.
I blink. “I—no. Not in my closet.”
“No boyfriend or husband?”
“No. But, um, I can get you something. Third floor. Guy about your height. Bit leaner.”
“Is it safe?”
“Mhm. I cleared the building months ago. Left zombies inthe lobby as deterrent, but the upper floors are safe.” He stretches, and my eyes catch on a splash of blue-black spreading across his ribs, partially hidden when he was sitting. “Wait—are those broken?”
He follows my gaze, pressing his fingers to the bruising. “Cracked, maybe. Nothing serious.”
“You should have said something.” I crawl closer, hand hovering over the area.
“Why? So you could fuss more?” His voice softens the harsh words. “It’ll heal.”
“You’re hurt everywhere. How’d you even climb twelve flights with all this?” Unable to stop myself, I trace the edge of his bruised ribs.
His skin twitches under my touch. He catches my wrist, fingers warm and calloused. “Had motivation.”
“What—zombies?”
“That, and a glittery angel dragging my ass up the stairs.”
“Angel is pushing it,” I murmur, very aware of his fingers still circling my wrist.
Our eyes meet. For a heartbeat, neither of us looks away.
“Thanks,” he says. “For this. For last night.”
“Your welcome…”
“Paris?”
“Yes?”
“Clothes?”
“Ah, yes. I’ll—Clothes. Back in a minute.” I tug my hand free. “And maybe some painkillers for those ribs?”
