Page 9 of A Dark Fall

I glance at his neck. His shirt, open at the collar, reveals the flash of a white bandage covering the knife wound I stitched together exactly eleven days ago. He shifts slightly on his feet, and his scent washes over me: that same heady mix of manliness I can almost taste on my tongue. It’s more intense than I remember. Everything about this feels intense. Jesus Christ, what even is this? This isn’t me. I don’t have pathetic, girly reactions to good-looking men, no matter how good-looking. It doesn’t happen. It has never happened.

“You did thank me,” I say in what I hope is a casual tone. “You were bleeding. I just did my job.” I shrug, finally managing to glance away from him. I look past him, over his shoulder, and then down at the floor before bringing my eyes back up.

So, I managed not to look at him for all of five seconds. Great work, Alex.

“No,” he says with a shake of his head. “The way I see it, you didn’t have to open the door.” His eyes narrow as though he’s trying to work me out. Figure out why I opened the door, perhaps?

“Of course I did.” I frown. “You were bleeding, and I’m a doctor.”

He bites his lip thoughtfully. Those lips. That mouth. It’s so kissable. I lick my lips involuntarily.

“Well, you were kind about it. You didn’t have to be. We weren’t exactly gentlemen.”

He sounds guilty. I think about that for a moment and decide maybe he’s being unfair to himself. He was gentlemanly. Polite and grateful. His creep of a friend wasn’t.Instead of mentioning this, I simply press my lips together and shrug again.

“It’s not really kindness. It’s more like ... bedside manner. It’s part of the training,” I say.

His mouth quirks, and he draws his eyes slowly down my body, a hungry look creeping into them again. I think he’s going to say something about my dress that might make my insides explode, so I decide to speak instead.

“So, this is really yours?” I ask, turning away from him. I look back through the large one-way window toward Robyn and the girls. Like an anchor, seeing them there reminds me that this in fact reality and not a sex dream. “I’m impressed.”

He chuckles, and it’s a soft, sexy sound. “Well, that means a lot. Coming from you.”

From me? When I turn back around, I find him still looking at me, his eyes narrowed as he runs his teeth along his bottom lip. I wonder—and not for the first time—what those lips would feel like; whether they’d be hard and demanding or soft and tempting.

I swallow. “Well, we’re having a great night. Thank you.”

He doesn’t respond but looks pleased by my comment, his chest puffing out a fraction.He’s staring into my eyes, but I feel the heat of them everywhere on my body. They’re deep and intense, and the closest color I can think of to describe them is a light emerald turquoise that seems to be aflame.

“You look really beautiful tonight, by the way,” he says after a moment, stealing the breath out of me. And as he draws his hungry gaze down my body once more, I’m pretty sure I want to be eaten by him. I want him to devour me whole. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want that. He seems to shake himself out of a partial trance and locks onto my eyes again. “I’m really glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you would. If it would be your kind of thing. But I’m really glad you did.”

I take a moment to enjoy the warm vibration still lingering from his compliment. He’s glad I came, and he thinks I look beautiful. The knowledge does things to me. Hot, dangerous things.

“Thank you for inviting us. It’s been a great night so far.” I realize I’ve already said this, but as I sound remarkably calm despite feeling anything but, I’m going to ignore that.

“I’m glad, Alexandra,” he says.

My mouth almost falls open. He knows my name. How does he know my name? My full name; my Sunday name. The name my parents use when they need to tell me serious things.

“How ... how do you know my name?” I whisper, no longer sounding calm.

He shrugs. “I know where you work. Wasn’t hard to find out which doctor was on that night. Lot of men at your surgery, a fifty-year-old woman, and you,” he explains.

I honestly don’t know if I should be frightened or flattered by his efforts.Naïvely, I decide I’m a little of both.

“You could have sent a thank-you card.” I smile. I’m flirting, definitely, for some reason only the champagne knows.

He watches me closely.“Yeah, maybe. But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see you in that dress.” His voice is low and quiet as he runs a hand over his perfect mouth then turns toward the desk.

I can’t breathe again.

“Have a drink with me, Alexandra, yeah?” he says, lifting the champagne out of the bucket.

I really want to tell him to stop calling me Alexandra. Only people who don’t know me call me that. And my Aunt Audrey. But he doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him, and so maybe he should be calling me Alexandra.

“It’s a big night for me,” he adds, fixing me with another of those intense stares. He pops the cork on the champagne with little effort, and for some reason, I don’t jump the way I normally do when people pop champagne corks. I’m too entranced watching the easy motion of his hands as he lifts one glass then the other, filling them both halfway.

I’ve always had a particular thing about men’s hands. Rob teases me about it incessantly. His hands are beautiful. Long, tanned fingers. Smooth skin with raised veins across the back, topped off with clean, short fingernails. I watch transfixed as he holds out a glass of the chilled, fizzing champagne to me. As I take it from him, my hand grazes his, and I note he feels warm to the touch. My own are cold and clammy. The only part of my body that is cold.