Page 7 of A Very Cheeky Christmas

“Darn it. I don’t want to take them to the normal ER, because—”

“Obviously. Who knows what the stitches will look like if you do that. And if this guy’s ass is as amazing as you say it is—”

“I didn’t say it was amazing.”

From beside me Andrew snorts. Loud enough for Shayla to hear, he announces, “It is that amazing.”

Shayla laughs, clearly amused by Andrew’s shenanigans. “Like I was saying, I can’t fit him in here at the office. But it sounds like his apartment is not far from my house, so I’ll swing by after work. A couple of stitches, a tetanus shot, he’ll be good to go in twenty-four hours. No one will ever know I was there.”

“You are an angel.”

“I know.”

“I’ll text you the address once we get there.”

“Sounds good. Keep him off his feet, keep him comfortable, you know the drill. I’ll see you tonight.”

Shayla hangs up before I can tell her I was hoping I could ditch him at his place, and she could handle this on her own.

Then, I glance over at Andrew and roll my eyes.

I don’t know how many Xanax he took, but the dude is definitely loopy. It’s not even noon yet, and I assume Shayla won’t make it to his place until seven or eight.

I take the next exit and steer into the drive-through lane of one of my favorite taco joints. It’s going to be a long day. The kind of day I need tacos with extra sour cream to get through. Too bad the place doesn’t sell margaritas as well.

Andrew’s apartment is nicer than I would expect.

I imagined the typical frat-boy decor that single men in their 30’s still haven’t outgrown—all lounge chairs, gaming systems, and movie posters on the wall. I was wrong about everything except the movie posters. Andrew has proper, adult furniture – i.e. a leather sofa and a coffee table that are modern reproductions of club furniture from the 1930’s. He even has a Christmas tree up in the corner.

On his walls, he has framed movie posters from film noir classics like The Big Sleep and Key Largo. I snort when I see one of them is from Lionhearted Productions. How freaked out would he be if he knew the woman on the poster is my great aunt?

Questions I’ll never know the answer to.

I help Andrew into his bedroom and help him change out of his jeans and into a comfortable pair of gray sweatpants. They do amazing things for his abs and ass, and horrible things to my lady bits.

It is grossly unfair that men can look so damn good in gray sweatpants. He peels off his t-shirt and tosses it in the direction of what is clearly his laundry hamper.

I’m so thankful that the Xanax has clearly made him very lethargic because he’s just pliable and watching me with sleepy hazel eyes. He gives me a soft grin, but there’s no double entendres or flirtiness, which right now, I’m not sure I’m quite strong enough to ignore. He looks too damn good.

I tear my eyes away from his bare torso before I start using him as a life-size diagram. He’s not bulky like a gym rat; he’s lean, but his muscles are defined and I could literally label them, one rectus abdominus at a time.

As if he knows exactly what I’m doing, he scratches absently across those defined abs.

I sigh. “Let’s get you into bed,” I say. I make sure he’s on his side, with a pillow at his back so he won’t accidentally roll over onto his injury in his sleep.

Then I force him to eat a few tortilla chips with some guacamole, then drink some water to wash down a couple of pain killers. Just enough to take the edge off until Shayla can get here.

I assume I’m going to be able to sneak out but the second I leave his side, he stretches a hand out toward me. “Will you stay with me?”

Despite my professionalism, this feels like dangerous territory.

Do I really want to climb into bed with Andrew and sit here with him while he sleeps?

No.

Yes.

Obviously, since I am, after all, a living and breathing human woman. Who wouldn’t want to climb in the bed with him? I totally want to snuggle up to his rocking hot body.