Page 40 of Great White
“I know.”
“Go sit on the couch.”
For once, I listen.
Snuggling up into the corner, I cover myself in the white blanket crumpled up next to me. I’m fully aware I’m only dressed in a towel, and I couldn’t care less. I don’t really think Tate minds either.
He places one cup on my coffee table and hands me the other. It’s warm to the touch. The sweet smell a welcome comfort.
“Where are the drugs?”
“Huh?” I flick my eyes up at him.
“The stash? Tylenol, Advil? I know your head must be splitting.”
“Oh. In the kitchen cabinet. Next to the microwave.”
Tate retrieves the bottle and drops a couple of pills into my hand. I swallow them down with a gulp of coffee. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He sits down on the couch and makes himself comfortable. He’s still wearing his dress clothes from last night, minus the bolo tie. His collar is open, and his hair is tousled, but he still looks like male perfection first thing in the morning, and he’s also sleep deprived.
I hand him the box of bandages. My arm is still bleeding. “Mind?”
“Not at all.” He accepts them theatrically. I roll my eyes.
Removing the largest bandage from the box, he attentively, almost painstakingly, covers the cut with the utmost care. I can’t resist watching his face the whole time. I have met many kinds of men in my short lifetime — killers, abusers, manipulators — but I can honestly say I’ve never met one like him. Someone who can be so charming and attentive, but also so deadly. It’s usually one or the other, and not a combination of both.
“You know . . .” He triple-checks the bandage before I lower my arm. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you laugh.”
“Yeah? Maybe I need to get hit in the head more often.”
Tate disagrees. His sour puss tells me so. “I would rather not find you unconscious and bleeding again.”
“Yeah, that sucked for me, too.” I blow on my coffee as it slowly cools.
“Seriously, though, are you all right?”
“I’m fine. You think that’s the first time a guy knocked me out?”
Tate’s head tilts. “Like in a street fight or some other way?”
I draw my eyes slowly up to his. “Some other way.”
His compassionate expression tells me he understands.
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Guapo.”
“I don’t. I feel sorry for him.”
I snicker. “I was a different person back then. The last man who told me he loved me broke my jaw and put me in a coma for three weeks.”
Tate’s dark eyes widen and swirl with a moral sense of outrage.
“Don’t get too upset.” I smirk darkly over the rim of my cup. “He got what he deserved.”
“That explains so many things,” Tate muses.
“It’s not something I love to talk about.”
