Rocky turned just as Jayce moved into the small room, filling the space with a palatable intensity. As always her heart fluttered and pounded at the sight of him. Tall, lean, and mean. Physically perfect in her book. He wore his dark golden hair longer these days and had grown a devilishly sexy goatee. Bad-boy to the bone, he was dressed in neck-to-toe black. Baggy pullover shirt, cargo pants, a wool Pea Coat hanging open, and a pair of rubber soled boots. He looked to-die-for handsome. He looked . . . angry.
“You said it was nothing.”
She realized his gaze was fixed on her shirt—stained with copious amounts of mostly dried blood. “It looks worse than it is.” She gestured to her forehead, feigned nonchalance. “Just a tiny cut, but it bled like a mother. It’s not that bad. Didn’t even need real stitches. Just this butterfly strip.”
Jayce dragged a hand down his face. “What else?”
Her body trembled when he moved in for a keener inspection. Her temperature spiked. Her brain glitched. Everything—her senses, her emotions—were magnified. She blamed her shaky state on the mugging, the accident, the meds, but no amount of rationalizing, curbed her intense reaction to the reassuring presence of this man. “Just some bruises,” she croaked, swallowing hard when he smoothed messy curls from her face. She’d had a crush on Jayce since she was a kid. She’d finally seduced him on the night of her seventeenth birthday. It had been perfect . . . until the next morning when he’d broken her heart. Every time she saw him, which was hardly ever, a lifetime of memories and emotions battered her soul. Every time she saw him, she fell a little harder instead of digging her way out. “I shouldn’t have called.”