Page 46 of The Mistletoe Kisser
When Sammy and Charisma hadn’t appeared properly concerned over the blood spurting from the wound, Ryan had yelled. Then grabbed Fernando the Beast’s bridle, looked it in its stupid, glassy eyes, and told it if it ever bit anyone again, he’d fly across the country and give the stupid thing a mohawk with hedge clippers.
Fernando had backed off, prancing across the yard to glare at him from the safety of the shed. But Abba had taken offense to Ryan insulting her boyfriend and kicked him right in the thigh. Those dainty little devil hooves carried a wallop. His leg was still throbbing. And then the spitting had happened.
“She’s lucky I didn’t decide to kick and spit back,” he muttered. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
Sammy pointed to the back seat. He limped around and found it in a neatly organized duffel bag tucked between a change of clothes, extra medical supplies, and a stash of protein bars. Ryan approved the orderly provisions. To some men, all it took to get turned on was a low-cut shirt and a pair of big… eyes. He certainly had nothing against those things. But he was more attracted to someone if she had labels in her pantry or a color-coded filing system. Or, apparently, a neatly organized go-bag.
Ripping open an alcohol swab, he returned to her.
She grinned up at him. It felt like he was staring directly into the sun. Thawing something inside him that felt like it had been frozen for a long time. Because what kind of an idiot stared directly into the sun?
“What?” he asked gruffly.
“You were very heroic prying Fernando’s jaws open. For a big city guy, you sure catch on quick to small-town farm life. Ouch! Bedside manner, buddy,” she complained when he swapped blood-soaked napkin for alcohol sting.
“Don’t be a baby, Sparkle. It’s your fault you have a job where you get bitten for a living. I don’t like the idea of you doing this on your own.”
“My vet tech is on vacation. He’s usually the one Fernando bites. Besides, it keeps things interesting.” She hissed out a breath through her teeth as he cleaned the wound. “I bet there are parts of your job that seem masochistic to an outsider.”
“Paper trails,” he said, shredding the packaging of a gauze pad and placing it firmly over the wound.
“Paper trails?”
“I love taking fifty pounds of paperwork and digging through it to find answers.”
Hell, he didn’t just love it. Helivedfor it. Knowing that everything he needed was boxed up in front of him and all he had to do was methodically work his way through each and every scrap of paper? It was gratifying in a “what kind of weirdo enjoys this?” kind of way.
So was being this close to her. In this light, her eyes were an almost depthless sky blue.
The llama kick must have dislodged something in his brain. He had never given a woman’s eye color more than a passing thought.
They were looking at each other. Measuring each other. Gazes locked. Breath synced. He studied every inch of her face for the reason for his interest. Was it the smattering of freckles across her nose? The dimple in her chin? That mouth of hers?
Or was it the way she looked at him,reallylooked at him? As if she were peeling back the layers of responsible accountant down into areas that hadn’t seen the light in years.
It was terrifying. Annoying. Exhilarating. And for some reason, the endless morning didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.
With a heroic effort, he dragged his attention back to the task at hand. But he let his fingers linger longer than necessary on the tape as he smoothed it over the gauze.
“You’re an interesting guy, Ryan. Where’d you get so good at first aid?”
He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination or not that was making her sound a little breathy. Was it possible she was as affected by the proximity as he was?Of course not. Women didn’t get breathless over the responsible, good-ish guy. He was the smart choice, not the “swept off her feet, love defies all logic” pick.
He was too grouchy. Worse, he worshipped organization, planning, efficiency. None of those ranked on the romance meter with women or led to the aforementioned sweeping of feet.
“I was nominated emergency director for my floor in the office,” he told her. “We have—had—three floors in a building downtown. Each floor has a director trained to take charge in the event of an emergency.”
“You’re so responsible,” she said with that bright smile that made it impossible for him to look away from her mouth.
“I can be irresponsible if I want to be,” he insisted.
That was probably a lie. He always paid his property taxes within twenty-four hours of receiving the notice. He kept an up-to-date pantry inventory that made grocery shopping for the eight meals he regularly rotated through on his menu a breeze. Monday was dry cleaning drop-off day because it was cheaper than Fridays. Thursdays, he ran his robot vacuum cleaner. Saturday was leg day at the gym so his co-workers wouldn’t see him limping around the office the next day.
Sure, he’d never forget a birthday or an anniversary. But he also wasn’t the bad boy who would push a woman up against a wall to kiss her without being 100 percent certain that’s what she wanted first.
Great. He was boring himself again.
Not that he was trying to impress the wounded Sammy. It wasn’t like he had a reason to. He wasn’t going to be here long enough to start a relationship or even some bizarre, short-term friendship.
