A smile broke out across her face as excitement welled within her. Forget about blue-eyed bar heroes. On the other side of that door was Amanda’s brother-in-law, Jackson, here to deliver her to the rest of her life—or at least to the sublet where she’d live while she worked her butt off nailing this job for Amanda. It was go-time.
Barefoot, glass in hand, she darted over to the door and pulled it open wide. “Hey, give me one minute…”
The rest of her words died on her tongue as she gasped at the sight of Jake Tyler, casual in worn denim and a cuffed button-down, leaning with one arm braced against the frame of her door.
His brow drew down as his darkening eyes took her in. “You?”
Cali stood immobile, dread hollowing the pit of her stomach. It was a mistake. It couldn’t be what it looked like—Jake wasn’t Jackson.
Oh, God. Her boss’s little sister’s husband. Lying about his name while he scored in a bar!
No!
Breath ratcheting, she staggered back.
She could not have screwed up again. Not this quickly; not this royally! Maybe she was wrong and this was some kind of happy misunderstanding. Maybe Jake was just some sick stalker, bent on creeping her out with his ability to track her. Maybe he wasn’t her boss’s brother-in-law after all.
Let it be true, she prayed, willing to offer him a pair of her panties, or whatever insane keepsake he wanted, so long as he didn’t confirm that she’d been swapping spit with the married man her boss secretly coveted.
“Jackson?” she whispered, clinging to the hope that he’d shake his head and deny it, come after her with a knife instead.
The corner of a mouth she’d had her lips all over turned up the slightest degree. “No one calls me Jackson but Amanda and my mother.”
No apologies, no denials, no miraculous explanation proving she hadn’t blown everything before she’d even gotten through the gate. Just that calmly assessing gaze, smug and secure. Amused, even. What could he possibly find amusing about this situation?
The backs of her knees collided with the low coffee table behind her before she realized she was still retreating—and momentum kept her going.
“Aiyee!” Her arms flailed, then she shot one out to catch herself. Instead, the glass in her hand broke the fall, crushed in her palm as her rear-end smacked down.
Glass shards glittered pink as they drowned in the rising wash of blood at her wrist. “Ungg…” she moaned. “Cut myself…” Jake’s guttural curse registered vaguely as he appeared, crouching at her side. The room dimmed, tilting, and distorted images began playing before her eyes.
Of course it wasn’t her life flashing there—she wasn’t dying. Merely fainting from the sight of her own blood. No, the images she saw were a series of memories, bar-side snapshots, leading to her latest life-shattering, career-flushing mistake.
“Ah, hell.” Jake muttered, quickly assessing the injury. “Not too bad, but we need to get the glass out.”
Cali let out a sick moan. As his focus shot to her paling face, and her eyes fixed on the blood oozing down her arm, he knew without question what was next. “No. Don’t look at it, sweetheart…No—no, don’t—” Too late. Her eyes rolled back, her face went slack, and her body crumpled against him. Great.
This just got better and better.
The last thing he’d expected as he knocked on the hotel room door was for the incredible woman who’d run out on him the night before to open it. But once it had happened, and he’d seen who she was—connecting Cali to Calista—he’d indulged in a momentary fantasy about picking things up where they’d left off.
Obviously he was going to have to forget about that ego-driven idiocy, because Cali clearly hadn’t been thinking the same thing. In those first seconds she’d looked more like she wanted to skin him than screw him, so it was safe to assume she was annoyed to discover he wasn’t just some stranger who’d gotten her off and then conveniently faded into the mist. And that didn’t jibe with the image he’d constructed from the night before. Which was just irritating. She’d been soft. Funny. Sweet. And a little bit shy, blushing at her own interest.
He’d spent hours lost in her laughter.
He was an idiot.
He did not want a relationship. And he did not date—even in his über-casual capacity—women connected to his family. Ever. They came with too many strings that were too hard to sever, and he wasn’t interested in the complications. So why should it matter if Cali wasn’t exactly who he’d thought the night before? If what had happened wasn’t quite as special as he’d thought?
It shouldn’t—didn’t.
And special? What was he? Twelve? They’d been in a phone booth, for God’s sake.
But she was now crumpled in his arms, and he did care about getting her cleaned up and back on her feet. Pulling her into his chest, he banded one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, then swept her up.
“Cali? Calista, sweetheart?”
Dodging the low-profile furniture in the suite, he crossed to the bathroom and sat with her tucked into his lap, her arm elevated, head lolling against his chest as she struggled to come around.
“Hey,” he whispered into the top of her hair. “Don’t watch—just look up at me or keep your eyes closed while I wash this out.”
But in the mirror’s reflection he saw her eyes on the sink, where the water was tinged with red as he ran the tap over her arm…and she was out again. The cuts were shallow and didn’t require stitches, so he finished up, then carried her to the bed. He laid Cali back, using a towel to protect the rumpled spread.
Blood rose slowly on her cuts—but it was nothing a few Band-Aids wouldn’t take care of. At the very least they’d cover enough to keep Cali conscious. He returned to the bathroom and, with only mild guilt, began riffling through her bags. In his experience women traveled with enough toiletries to perform a double bypass, so Band-Aids were a sure bet.
In addition to a selection of cosmetics, brushes, sprays, gels and creams, he noted the slim case of her birth control pills, a pack of breath mints, mouthwash, floss and, in one stiff zippered plastic compartment, a single condom with a label he hadn’t seen since med school. The expiration date had passed the year before.
Somehow the idea of Cali packing her little wash bag with the accoutrements of a sexually responsible woman—even though it appeared she’d had limited or lack-luster experience if that one single condom had suffered such a bleak and joyless existence in her bag—made him think again of the way she’d looked at him the night before as she confessed that she hadn’t been kissed in such a very long time.
He shouldn’t be thinking about it. The way she’d melted against him, the taste of her sigh in his mouth, the heat of her—
This was Amanda’s new shooting star. He didn’t want the strings. But still he made a mental note that if Cali ever looked at him as she had last night—if his resolve ever weakened—to bring his own protection. A whole box, not a single rubber.
Behind the decrepit prophylactic he hit the jackpot, with a small stash of equally ancient bandages. Returning to Cali’s side, he peeled the adhesive backs free then carefully applied them to cover her cuts.
“Pretty big faint for not a lot of wound, there, Cali.” He pushed a lock of hair from her eyes, tracing down the line of her jaw and under it to the soft, warm skin of her neck, where he found her carotid artery. Her pulse beat against the gentle pressure of his fingers, healthy and strong.
As he stared down at her face he saw