"Not a problem at all. Us Southern boys are raised from the cradle to help a lady in distress, you know."
"So I see." She tucked Dan's business card in her back pocket. "I'll see you later."
"I hope so."
Patterson scampered across the pool deck, out the back gate and headed for Trent's house. Glancing at the clock, she realized Trent had been asleep for several hours. She'd better wake him to make sure he wasn't disoriented or suffering more effects from the head injury.
He was going to be hungry, too. Patterson cleared the kitchen island of all the alcohol, tucking it away neatly on a side counter, found a small pan and started a grilled cheese sandwich for him on the monster 6-burner stove. Did anyone need a stove that big? Maybe she could heat up some soup, too, or some of the Spaghetti O’s she’d brought over from Hank’s along with some other easy comfort food. It was too late for lunch and too early for supper, but this would be a nice snack for him—a sort of peace offering.
Sandwich cooking, she climbed the stairs, which curved around to the second floor, where there was a balcony overlooking the two story living room. The wood floors gleamed and all the furniture was coordinated but didn’t match exactly, like it had been picked out by a professional designer. There was no clutter or dust at all and from up above the living room looked perfect—too perfect, like there wasn't much living going on in the living room at all.
She thought of the apartment in X where she'd lived for the last few years. Her second-hand furniture and the worn area rug was comfortable if not coordinated. Patterson didn't keep much more than just the essential furniture and some clothes around but she'd never been especially neat, so there were often shoes lying abandoned by the door, discarded jackets draped over the backs of chairs and mail and papers cluttering her desk. No one would mistake any of her past apartments for a model home.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Patterson looked down the hallway. There was only one closed door so she moved towards it, passing a couple of neat, but sparse guest bedrooms and a bathroom. Further along there was an office and beyond that a room painted a soft yellow that was completely empty, save for some breezy sheer curtains and a padded rocking chair in one corner.
When she reached the closed door, she knocked lightly and hearing nothing, put her ear against the door. She knocked again and growing worried, opened the door a crack and peeked in.
Even though late afternoon sunshine permeated all of the other rooms in the house, walking into the master bedroom was like walking into a cave. The only light was the cracks of sunlight that rimmed the edges of the heavy drapes and the artificial light that spilled in from the doorway. After a moment, Patterson could just make out a lump on the massive four-poster bed and moved towards it.
She switched on the small bedside table lamp and leaned in to look at her patient.
He lay sprawled on his back, one arm thrown above his head. He hadn't bothered to get under the covers or put on any type of pajamas, so he just lay there in his skivvies, sprawled diagonally across the bed. Patterson couldn't help but eye his large body appreciatively. He was lean and angular, but corded with muscle from his shoulders down to his calves. His dark shaggy hair spilled across the pillow, his face was relaxed.
The creases around his eyes and at the bridge of his nose were smoothed with sleep, making him look closer to Dan's age, after all. Maybe it was all the scowling that made Patterson think of him as an old man. He was older than her 26 years, for sure. To be fair, though, people always thought Patterson was much younger, which annoyed her to no end when she was forced to produce her ID every time she wanted to order a beer at a club.
Her gaze dropped to his full lips, parted slightly in sleep. Usually arranged in a thin line, now they were lush and full, almost too sensual for a man, and looked as if they were made for long, slow kisses.
The first stirrings of attraction sent tingling spirals of warmth through her belly. Not what she needed right now. This mini-retreat was supposed to be man-free. The last thing she needed was a fresh infatuation while she tried to sort out her life.
"Hey," she said softly. "You awake?"
Trent just lay there, sleeping on. "Hey. Trent. Wake up."
Nothing.
"Trent," she said a little louder. She nudged his arm. "Wake up."
He stirred a little at the poking but didn't wake up. Lord, what if his head injury was more severe than they'd thought? What if he was bleeding internally or had slipped into a coma?
"Wake up!" Patterson said, pushing at him. His flesh was warm beneath her palms, but he still didn't move. Panic quickened her pulse. She was going to have to call 911 if she couldn't rouse him.
She climbed onto the bed next to him and felt his pulse. Steady, thank God, and his breathing seemed deep and regular. "Trent!" she yelled, shaking him with both hands.
He shot bolt upright, sending her flying backwards on the bed. "What?" he demanded, sleep disoriented. "What's..." He blinked a few times trying to focus. He rubbed his eyes with one fist then his gaze settled on Patterson. "What are you doing in my bed?"
CHAPTER THREE
It wasn't that Trent didn't like waking up to find a beautiful woman in his bed. He did, quite a lot, actually. It hadn't happened in a while though, so it took a few seconds for him to realize that she was real and not a dream and then another few seconds to remember who she was. The why remained a mystery.
"What are you doing in my bed?" he repeated, trying to not stare at her creamy shoulders left bare by her tank top. And she was wearing those damned cut off bikini jeans shorts again. Didn't she own any britches that covered her backside?
"I...was just checking on you," she said, climbing off the bed. "People with concussions shouldn't sleep too long at a time without being woken up. At least for the first 24 hours or so. When you wouldn't wake up I got worried."
"And climbed into my bed."
"You're a hard sleeper."
He wasn't actually. In fact he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept as soundly, and more importantly, as dreamlessly as he had. Maybe he should have someone conk him in the head more often.
"I'm fine."
"Yes. I can see that. Now." She straightened her clothing and cast a sideways glance at him, her gaze roaming down his body. In the dim light he could see her cheeks pinken the slightest bit. Well, let her be embarrassed. It was his bedroom for christsakes and if he wanted to sleep in just his underwear he would. She was lucky he had that much on, actually. He usually slept in the buff here in his bedroom. As for the morning wood, well, that was biological. And her shorts weren't helping.
"I'll just go and do...something." She scampered out of the room without another glance at him.
Once the door closed, Trent swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned. He scratched his head, wincing when his fingers encountered the row if neat stitches on the back of his head in the middle of the small shaved patch. It wasn't bleeding. That was something. And his head hurt a little less. That was a good thing. Of course of the day had gone as planned, he wouldn't be feeling anything right now. He'd be sitting by the side of the pool, drunk off his ass, wallowing in a different kind of pain, probably remembering in detail the day his world had come crashing down around him in one sickening metal on metal crunch.
But instead he had acquired a brain injury, four stitches and an over protective and unwanted house guest who couldn't seem to find any pants to cover her luscious curves and who had no qualms about crawling right into his bed.
If she hadn't been Hank's niece, he would have called a cab and happily put her up in a hotel until the house was livable again. But as it was, he felt a certain responsibility towards her, the same as he did about keeping an eye on Hank’s house while he wasn't around.
Hank had been there for Trent when the world fell apart. He was a widower himself and with barely a word let Trent know that he could lean on him when he needed to and brought over cheap pizza and beer and watched some sports
with him when words or fishing didn't help. He never let Trent slip too far into the darkness that always lurked at the edges of his world, waiting to grow into something that could easily swallow him whole in the hours just before dawn. At first he'd resented Hank's gentle refusal to let him slip away. Now he realized it had very likely saved what was left of his life.
No, the very least Trent could do was give Hank's niece a bed to sleep in for a few nights, even if she was the most frustrating female he'd ever met. Aside from Amy, of course.
Trent got out of bed and pulled on the same rumpled khaki shorts he'd had on earlier, the corners of his cottony mouth turning up just a bit. He hadn't thought of how Amy had known exactly how to push his buttons in a long, long time. Trent was just rifling through the dresser for a clean t-shirt when he smelled smoke and the fire alarm let loose with an ear-piercing wail.
Oh, hell. What now? Was she burning down the place?
He pulled on the shirt as he raced down the hallway and took the stairs like an Olympic sprinter, his heart beating furiously. He skidded to a stop in the kitchen to find Hank's niece waving a cookie sheet in the general vicinity of the smoke alarm and coughing a little.
His gaze darted to the top of the line Viking professional model range and the blackened square that looked like it had once been a sandwich, still smoldering. He turned on the exhaust fan, then took the pan and dumped the sandwich down the sink, running the water and the disposal to get rid of the cause of all the smoke. Then he leaned against the sink, watching the woman fight with the smoke detector. Her stretching made her shorts ride up even more, and her top, too, so that there was an enticing patch of bare tanned flesh around her middle.
The blaring of the alarm finally stopped, leaving a mild ringing in his ears and a pulsing pain in his head. She turned then and jumped when she saw him. The cookie sheet crashed to the floor and when she bent to pick it up he could see straight down her top. Hank’s niece. She was Hank's niece. And she was probably barely out of high school. Too young and innocent, too light for his darkness by far.
With an effort, he looked away, focusing on the kitchen island, now empty of bottles and instead cluttered with bread, mayonnaise, bags of chips, paper plates, cheese slices, diet Coke and a can of Spaghetti O’s and...was that bologna? She must have brought over food from Hank's because he couldn't remember the last time his kitchen been stocked with processed meats or canned pasta.
"I was making you a snack," she said, seeing the direction of his gaze. "I just, got sidetracked." She gave a half grin. "Sorry. That racket couldn't have helped your headache. Do you want something for it?"
"No. I'm—"
"Fine," she finished. "I get it." She set the cookie sheet on top of the mess on the counter. "For someone who's got a concussion and stitches in the back of his head, you say that a lot."
He pushed off the counter and started to clean up the mess. "I've had worse." When he was just starting out and playing the seedy bar circuit, he'd once been coshed on the head with a beer bottle. That had required 18 stitches, but he hadn't remembered it itching this much.
"This yours?" Trent held up the package of Oscar Meyer and some plastic-wrapped processed American cheese food.
She nodded. "I didn't see much in your fridge that was easy to make."
"I don't do easy." He put the "food" back in the fridge, eyeing the diet Coke and little plastic cups of pudding that had also taken up residence in his fridge.
"I was trying to make you something to eat. Sorry about this." She gestured to the kitchen.
He didn't answer, just dived back into the Subzero and pulled out a container of living lettuce, bleu cheese, an apple, a left over lemon-rosemary chicken breast and the raspberry vinaigrette he'd made a few days before.
Putting everything on the island, he washed his hands then pulled out his favorite Santoku knife, a paring knife and a cutting board and went to work peeling and cutting up the apple. The woman sat down on the bar stool on the opposite side of the counter, watching him. He ignored her, cutting the cold chicken into strips next. That done, he went to the cupboard, grabbed the dried cranberries, pecans and two bowls and forks.
"You cook." She seemed surprised.
It was either eat or die and once he'd gotten mostly past the wanting to die part, he realized he missed the good food he'd become accustomed to eating in fine restaurants around the world. He might be a redneck, but he'd always liked to eat and once he'd given up on ever getting full night's sleep, infomercials and DVR’d Food Network programming had kept him company during those quiet hours.
Trent ripped the lettuce into pieces, filled the bowls then added the chicken, apples, pecans cranberries and blue cheese. He drizzled each salad with the vinaigrette then pushed one of the bowls and a fork towards the woman still watching him. He cleaned up the counter again then leaned against the sink to eat.
"This is good." Again, she seemed surprised.
"It's salad."
"Yeah, but—I usually just open up the bag of pre-cut lettuce and dump it in a bowl. That's salad. This is...oh my God. Sweet, but tart, too. Just—yum."
No doubt she also smothered the chemical-washed lettuce with tons of sugar-filled prepared salad dressing. He ate his own salad, savoring the crunch of the lettuce and the sweet burst of flavor from the cranberries. Once you had good food, the salty, over-sugared processed stuff taste like the crap it was. To be fair, when he'd been her age, he'd eaten all the junk, too.
"How old are you?" he asked.
She looked up, startled, and finished chewing before she answered. "Wow. That was random." She wiped her mouth on a napkin and took a sip of Diet Coke. "Don't you know you're not supposed to ask a lady her age?"
He said nothing, just continued to eat his salad and wait. Maybe when she told him how young she was, it would be enough to put a damper on his libido that, dormant for so long, now flared back to life watching her lick the vinaigrette from the fork.
"I'm 26," she said, finally. "People always guess me younger, though. So annoying."
Older than he'd thought, damn it, but still more than a decade younger than him. Not that it should matter since he planned to avoid her as much as possible while she was here.
"You staying at Hank's long?"
"I'm not sure." Her gaze slid away and a shadow crossed her pert, even features.
The girl had secrets then. He knew something about that, enough not to ask questions. Besides, he didn't want to know any more about her than he already did. The last thing he wanted was to get more involved in her and her drama.
He set his empty bowl in the sink and washed his hands. He needed to get away from her and her little pink tongue licking at the sweet dressing on her lips. And the short shorts, and the glimpses of those perfect breasts taking him by surprise when she bent over, her tight t-shirt pulled over them, outlining the lush contours perfectly. Didn't she realize that although he was old man, to her anyway, he was still a man, and a stranger at that. She's only met him that morning. He could be a nut job or something and here she was, parading around in front of him and—
"Are you in pain?" Her eyes were narrowed, studying his face.
The question jolted him out of his head. "Not too bad."
"Oh, you looked like you were in pain."
He was in pain, alright. Just not from his injuries. "My head itches."
"Oh, the stitches. Let me look." She gestured to him to stand in front of her stool.
He started to make an excuse but then thought better of it. The last thing he needed was an infection or something. He couldn’t see the wound himself to see if it was puffy.
She'd gotten up on her knees on the high bar stool since she was such a little petite thing and he turned his back to let her have access to his gash.
He felt her small fingers sift through his long hair, searching for the wound, and closed his eyes. He shuddered involuntarily at the contact. How long had it been since someone had touched him? It was foreign, but
nice having her hands on him.
She found the site and touched the edges of the closure lightly. "It hurts?"
"Not really."
"You hair is sticking to it," she said, removing her hands. "But it's not infected. "Did they tell you not to wash your hair until the stitches come out?"
"No." It might have been in the literature he hadn't read. Or in the verbal instructions he’d not really listened to, wanting nothing more than just to get home and be alone.
"Well, don't."
He ran his hands through his shaggy mane. He should have gotten a haircut. He couldn't stand not to shower or wash his hair and longer hair got greasy faster. It had been months and his hair, always thick, reached past his collar in the back and fell over his eyes in the front. Combined with the thick beard, it was no wonder the woman had thought he was some homeless guy wandering around the neighborhood. But then he hadn't exactly known he was going to be getting stitches today. It wasn't like it was penciled in on his calendar or something.
Hell, he didn't even have a calendar anymore. He used to have a personal assistant who scheduled every moment of every day for him. Now all he needed was the sun and his own internal clock to judge the time. There was no work, no schedule, no obligations. If he felt like spending the day on the couch or the lake or by the pool, he did. If he felt like visiting the cemetery, he did that, too. He didn't need to impress anyone, didn't need to worry about his image, didn't need to worry about burning out or fading away. It had already happened. And that's just the way he wanted it.
"It itches," he said once he realized the woman was still standing there, hand on hips, frowning at him.
"It would be easier if you'd cut it."
He scratched again. “I don't feel like going out."
She put her bowl in the sink then went into the dining room and retrieved a chair and dragged it to the middle the kitchen. "Sit," she said.
He raised an eyebrow, not moving.
"I can't cook, but I can cut hair," she said.
He stared at her for a moment. It would feel a lot better without hair sticking to the wound, especially since he wouldn't be able to wash it. And she wanted to help, he could see that. Besides how badly could she screw it up? It wasn't like he was walking many red carpets these days and he ER nurse had already given him a bald spot. If he didn't like it, he'd get out the clippers and shave it after she went back to wherever she came from, so as not to hurt her feelings. With an exhale of breath, he pulled off his t-shirt and sat down in the chair.
Nashville Crush Page 3
