Page 44 of For Better or Hearse
With a dubious grunt and a tense jaw, he inspects her. He’s back to annoyed. Doctor Robot. That’s him. And that’s why he’s doing this. Checking her over like she’s a glass-jarred specimen.
“Holy shit, that was next-level death defying.”
Both Nathaniel and Ash bristle. Slowly, they turn their heads.
The offender wielding the selfie stick is back, Hawaiian shirt and all. “I got it all on video,” he says, lifting the stick in victory. As if that was his sole mission. To push Ash off a cliff for the sheer sake of views.
Almost killed by a rogue TikToker. She’ll never live it down.
Ash flinches as the selfie stick whizzes past her ear.
“Get that fucking thing out of her face, asshole,” Nathaniel snarls, shoving the stick and the man backward.
Eyes wide, Ash bites her lip. Not Nathaniel literally confirming he can fight.
“I just want her name for the video—”
“Take your fucking stick and keep moving unless you want it up your ass,” Nathaniel snaps, stepping in front of her to block her from view.
“Fuck you, dude.” With that, the guy storms off.
Ash looks up at him, brow cocked. “Impressive. Violence before lunch.”
He blows out a hard breath. “Fucking people.” Placing a hand on her elbow, he steers her toward a less populated area. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
His stern, bossy tone steamrolls her stomach.
She nods, straightening up, convincing herself to rally. And then a weight’s lifted from her, literally. Nathaniel slips her pack down her arms and hooks it around his broad shoulder.
“You don’t need to be any more off balance.” With those words, he drops to his knees. Lifts his eyes. “And you don’t need to break your neck either.”
Feeling almost lightheaded, she stares down at him. “Nathaniel, you don’t—”
“You almost fell down a fucking cliff,” he grits out, “because of your goddamn boots.”
Before she can argue with him, he wraps his warm, broad palm around her right ankle and sets her boot on his thigh.
Ash stiffens at the feel of his hands on her.
Head bowed, face furrowed in concentration, he ties her laces. His long fingers dexterously loop the bows. He tightens them extra-tight, as if he’s angry. To steady herself, she places a hand on his shoulder. In the morning sunlight, the honey-wheat hue of his hair, the flex of his jaw, do something ominous to her heartbeat.
Because, holy shit, is this the hottest thing a man has ever done for her? On his knees tying her shoes? Yeah, right. Ash shakes herself out of her moony daze. He’s treating her as if she’s a toddler. He’s behaving exactly as a doctor should. This does not mean hecares. Because a man like Nathaniel Whitford doesn’t care about anyone but himself.
She’s pulled from her ridiculous thoughts when Nathaniel lifts his head. She watches as his gaze roams over her tattoos. Stiffens when his thumb strokes across her calf in a sweet, calming motion. He shouldn’t be touching her there. And she should absolutely not be enjoying it.
He looks up at her, his eyes lasered firmly on her face. The air changes between them. Electrified. Intense.
Ash sucks in a breath, wanting to push him away, wanting to push herself into him all at once. “I think you throttled the laces enough,” she says quietly.
With visible effort, he removes his hands from her and dusts dirt from his pant leg. Then he rises to stand tall over her. “There,” he says. His biceps ripple. He’s so close she can feel the heat radiating between them. “If you fall now, it’s not on my conscience.”
“That’s presuming you have one.”
Fuck. It’s the wrong thing to say.
Nathaniel’s face wipes clean of its softness, hardening into an emotion she can’t place. Seething anger maybe. Irritation.
Distressingly, it upsets her that she’s upset him.