Page 16 of It Hurts Me

He turned his head to look at me, his stare on the side of my face.

I avoided his look as long as I could. While I desired his attention, I didn’t want him to know that, how tense he made all the muscles inside my body, the way he unnerved me whenever we breathed the same air. But I turned to look at him anyway, to regard him with as much emptiness as I could fake.

His eyes continued to burn in my face. “What is it?”

“What is what?” I asked.

“You’re upset.”

“I-I didn’t say anything.” How did he know? How could he possibly know every bone in my body was broken?

His eyes shifted back and forth slightly before he stepped away, turning his muscular back on me. “I can tell.” He moved to one of the paintings that leaned against his couch, the fireplace behind it. He regarded it for a while before he looked at the empty space above the fireplace, as if he wondered if that’s where he should hang it. “Some men are blessed with great intelligence, others wisdom, and men like me…intuition.” He turned back to me. “Don’t worry, I won’t pry. I can tell you don’t want to talk about it.”

My eyes were locked on his face with no desire to move. I was fascinated by his appearance and his presence, and not just because he was drop-dead gorgeous, but for another reason I couldn’t describe. I tried to counter the invisible spell he cast with a change of subject. “You look like you just woke up.”

“Because I did.”

And he looked that sexy when he rolled out of bed? “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Long night.” He moved past me to examine another painting.

My eyes glanced down at his skull ring.

He caught the look. “You forgot your wedding ring again.”

I didn’t forget it this time. “Where would you like these to be hung? I’ll get to work on that.”

“There’s no way you can hang these.”

Because some of them probably weighed a hundred pounds. “No, but I want to make sure the contractors do everything correctly. Time is money to these guys, so they cut corners and shit. And I don’t put up with that. So, which one should go where? I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

He looked around at the paintings and crossed his arms over his muscular chest…his very muscular chest. He reminded me of a mighty oak tree, hundreds of years old and rich in wisdom, with thick and powerful roots that reached deep into the soul of the earth. After a few seconds of silence, he made his selections.

I wrote down his directions. “I’ll get that taken care of with George.”

He moved to one of the armchairs in the study and took a seat, his stomach still flat like a board even when seated. He was that tight, that ripped, that muscular. His elbow propped on the armrest, his fingers resting across his shadowed jawline. His stare was as striking as the paintings he selected. Then he just stared.

It was tense, like he’d asked me a question and I missed it, like we were in the middle of a conversation that had fallen into silence. He had a threatening presence to him, but it wasn’t hostility directed at me, just in general.

There was nothing left for me to do but leave, but I continued to stand there.

He didn’t look impatient for me to leave. He seemed content letting the seconds tick by on the old clock that sat on his mantel. Like a stone gargoyle that was mounted to stand the test of time and guard a Gothic cathedral, he remained still and solid.

I should say goodbye and leave, but my feet were rooted to the thick rug.

He slowly rose to his feet and turned his back on me as he approached his desk.

I stared at that muscular back, seeing concrete that was bulletproof. The muscles that hugged his spine were so tight as they carried all his weight.

He grabbed a decanter and filled two glasses with scotch before he returned to the armchair and placed them on the coffee table. “Sit.” He nodded to the couch near him, his elbow returning to the armrest so his fingers could rest against his hard face.

I took a seat in the corner closest to him, feeling the tension increase tenfold. I stared at the glass sitting there waiting for me, but I didn’t take it since it was only three in the afternoon.

He grabbed his, took a drink, and then set it on the table next to his armchair.

“Scotch for breakfast?”

“I prefer it to coffee. Much smoother.”