Page 129 of Average Joe

“Fucking shit!” I screamed, startled, a whoosh of air leaving my lungs. “You’re okay. Thank God!”

Joe held my gaze, silent, stiff. He was a battle-worn soul who stunk of body odor and antiseptic. “I’m far from okay,” he rasped, standing straight, towering over me, every muscle in his jaw and neck tight.

Fear coursed through me, buckling my knees.

Joe’s gaze dragged along the length of my naked, trembling body. He shook his head, releasing a breath, then turned and headed toward my room.

“I’m sorry” seemed insignificant, but I said the words regardless, following behind.

Joe reached the bed, cleared his throat, then broke my heart. “You could’ve killed me.” His shoulders rose, then fell on a long sigh. “These pain meds are doing a number. I need sleep.” He kicked off his shoes, stumbled, caught himself on my dresser, then mumbled, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

How could he possibly want me in the same room? “Joe—”

“Please.” He scrubbed a palm over his face. “Get in bed.”

I obeyed. I owed him that much.

He slid between the sheets, mindful of his wound. I eased next to him, leaving ample and painful distance. I ached to touch, soothe, connect, anything, but was I allowed after what I’d done? I watched and waited until his body melted into the mattress and a faint snore filled the silence. Only then did I dare reach out, stroke the stubble on his face, trace his pulse.

Thank God he was alive. Thank God I hadn’t destroyed one of the good ones.

My heart ached for Joe and beat too hard, too fast, my mind spinning, showing no sign of shutting down.

I’d nearly killed a man, yet he lay in my bed, resting peacefully. He’d come to me for comfort after my foolish behavior.

If I’d kept my temper in check, I would never have picked up that gun.

If I had followed my own rules and never dropped my pants for Joe, he’d be happy and healthy with a good woman who carried no baggage. Then again, I wouldn’t have discovered how wonderful a bad boy could be.

Joe Kaine was an angel dropped from the sky into my crazy life, and time and time again, he’d proven that he was playing for keeps. But, not even the best of men should be expected to forgive being shot by the woman they love.

* * *

The dogs barked, snarled, and clawed at the front door. Brain half in dreamland, I wrestled from the bedding and stumbled through the dark living room.

The mutts circled my legs, whining, then continued their defensive routine. A peek through the window revealed nothing or no one outside in the immediate vicinity.

“What are you brats making a fuss about? Was there a critter outside?” I cooed, patting their heads to calm them, though my skin prickled with a warning.

After double-checking all the locks, I shooed my protectors back to bed, snuggled into my pillow, then breathed deep, inhaling Joe’s scent.

My alarm blared at five AM. Joe mumbled, then fell silent, his lashes fanned over his cheeks, adding boyish charm to his chiseled features. Ginger groaned. Bruce leaped to the floor and scrambled for the back door, ready to take on the day. I waited patiently for the pitter-patter of four tiny paws to catch up before letting them outside.

I had just poured steaming coffee into my mug when Joe shuffled around the corner, hair a mess, lips pouty, eyes sleepy and so damn dreamy my nipples pebbled.

“Got one of those for me?” he asked, voice thick with morning rumble.

I handed him my cup, mumbled, “Good morning,” and poured another.

Joe leaned against the counter, too far away for my liking. He didn’t look happy to see me, nor did he look sex starved as I’d become accustomed to. He looked like a man ready to end things, and for that, I was devastated.

My gut churned. Steeling my spine, bracing for the inevitable impact, I started, “Joe, I, uh—”

“You shot me.”

Once the first tear fell, there was no stopping the flood. “I—I don’t… I can’t tell you how sorry I am. There are no words to convey how horrid I feel, how disgusted with my behavior.” I sniffed, swiped the moisture from my face. “I hate guns. I absolutely hate them, and I flailed that thing around like a lunatic. I could’ve killed you or one of the dogs.”

Joe sipped his coffee, arms crossed, showing no emotion but holding my gaze.

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