Necks were underrated female geography. He loved how they tasted when he kissed them there, how they smelled as he nuzzled.
Equally fascinating was her lush mouth, how the corner remained quirked on one side despite the natural pout, as if in perpetual secret amusement.
This woman was bright, spunky, and happy, despite her father’s miserable situation. His heart sank. He had nothing to offer someone like her, not when his whole world had burned to a cinder.
He shook himself inwardly, not moving a muscle. No point succumbing to the ugly truth, however true. Maybe he could pretend to be a normal guy for the night. Normal except for the scars, the missing leg, and the fact he hadn’t spoken to a living soul since Sawyer dropped off his groceries six days ago, and was tongue-tied around strangers at the best of times.
Shit.
What would Archer do? His younger brother was good with people, especially the ladies. He’d navigate this situation like a pro.
She gave him a tentative smile, probably because he was staring at her like a loon.
Compliments. Women like compliments.
“Your teeth are real white,” Wilder blurted. Goddamn it, the words hung over them like a comic strip balloon. He wished for a string to grab on to, so he could stuff the idiocy back into his mouth, swallow it down.
“Excuse me?” Her shoulders jerked as her lips clamped, clearly not anticipating the awkward flattery.
At least he hadn’t said how much he liked her neck. Yet.
Damn, this was a mistake. He wasn’t good with people. Didn’t like people. Didn’t need people.
Quinn set her chin in her hand. “Did you just pay me a compliment?”
“No.” He answered quickly.
She peered at him, clearly unwilling to let this go. “Yes, you did. I heard you. Or maybe you need to send my dentist a fan letter.”
He ignored her joking tone. “Forget it.”
“I . . . it’s okay . . . it just surprised me.”
He snorted. “You don’t look like someone who is short on compliments.” If anything, he guessed the opposite was the case. A woman like Quinn didn’t exist in the world for men to ignore, not with that face, that body.
She shrugged.
“You telling me you don’t get attention?”
“Attention? I guess I get”—she frowned, as if searching for the right word—“lines.”
“Lines?”
“You know, like ‘did you sit on a pile of sugar, because you have a sweet ass?’ or ‘Hey, baby, I’m not staring at your rack, I’m looking at your heart,’ or, oh, here’s a good one, ‘Let me have your picture so I can show Santa what I want for Christmas.’ ”
He knitted his brow, his stomach muscles getting tight. “Guys have seriously said all that stuff to you?”
“Yep.” Her matter-of-fact tone didn’t mask a twinge of annoyance. “And those are the ones that are at least a little bit funny.”
He gritted his teeth. “Dumbasses.”
“Yeah. Guys can be that all right.” She shrugged before glancing up quickly. “Present company excluded though.”
Yeah sure.
Hard to believe her encouragement given the way he bungled through their conversations. He sank into the antique rocking chair beside the fire, the one Annie, Sawyer’s girlfriend, brought over from her farmhouse. It was well-made and a well-intentioned gift but still made him feel like a thirty-one-year-old geriatric.
“So.” She crossed her legs, idly smoothing a hand over her knee.
“So.” A dull ache spread through his chest. He was used to phantom pains in his missing leg, but apparently the same phenomenon could happen to your heart.
“You read and whittle. Plus start fires.”
“What?” His voice came out a harsh bark. She looked perceptive but how could she—
“Hey, that’s a darn good fire.” She flicked a thumb toward the hearth before giving him an odd, lingering look.
“Hrmph.” He had nothing else of use to offer the conversation. Going from a hermit to a human in polite company was jarring. “I put fires out or used to.”
She flashed a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Literally or metaphorically speaking? Because I used to put out fires too.” She grabbed the tendril back and began looping it around her finger. “But they were things like how my boss didn’t want to be asked if he wore shoe inserts in his last movie to appear taller or had Botox done. The answers to both were yes by the way. I worked for a PR company in Hollywood and handled stars. One in particular. Tim Beckett.”
“The guy from all the Fatal Night movies?”
She shot him an indecipherable look. “You a fan?”
“Not really.”
“Really?” Her shoulders dropped a fraction. “Most guys seem to like big explosions, car chases, spy rings.”
He shrugged. “Guess I’m not like most guys.”
There came that appraising stare again. “Guess not. And by the way, I’m going to make a deduction that you fought actual fires.”
He spared her a covert glance. The fire illuminated her sweet features, the nervous way her tongue darted to tap her top lip. “What tipped you off?”
“The hands for one.”
Those lingering looks she kept casting in his direction were just his imagination. No doubt she found him repulsive. Couldn’t help but stare. He affected an indifferent shrug. “You mean my scars.”
“Do they hurt?”
“Not anymore.” He glanced down at his crooked fingers. “Did at the time though. Third degree. Required grafting. Surgery. It’s why I took that up.” He nodded at the whittling. “Part of my therapy. Helps with regaining dexterity.”
“What about sensation?”
He swallowed. “Most of the nerve endings were destroyed.” He’d never be able to gather all that long luscious hair and revel in the texture of soft strands slipping through his fingers.
“You can’t feel anything with your hands?”
“Very little.”
“And this was the same accident that cost you the leg?”
“More or less.” He swallowed, throat thick. “Parachute accident followed by a wildfire.”
“Oh my God.” Her voice rose an octave. “That’s unlucky.”
“Don’t ask me to pick a lotto ticket number.”
She made a strange sound, almost as if she wanted to chuckle but choked it back.
“Go on, laugh. It was a joke.”
“I thought so, but got to say, you don’t seem like the jovial sort.”
There was a cough from the spare bedroom, followed by a long low moan.
“My dad! He’s waking up.” She jumped to her feet. “Mind if I get a glass of water? I have some of his Ativan in my bag. He’s going to be anxious waking in a strange place. Best if I can keep him subdued, comfortable, and sleeping until morning.”
Wilder gestured to the four glasses lined up on the shelf. “Help yourself. Whatever you need.” He clamped his mouth before starting in on some “mi casa es su casa” crap and eyed his watch. His entire body prickled with awareness. The night hadn’t even properly settled and he wasn’t sure how he’d survive it.
QUINN PRETENDED SHE didn’t notice Wilder’s covert watch check, but that didn’t fool her heart. The uneven lurch was a stupid physiological reaction because it wasn’t as if he had requested her company in the first place. She grabbed a glass and ran it under the tap, resisting the urge to splash her face and cool down. Good thing the room was dark because a hot flush had permanently stamped itself on her cheeks.
She walked out of the kitchen space without another glance at the big male body slouched by the fire, and she entered the bedroom without a knock. Maybe Dad had just stirred in his sleep. Maybe he’d . . .
“Who are you?” he yelled, sitting straight up in bed.
“Hi, Dad. It’s Bizzy. Quinn. Your daughter.”
He didn’t answer with more than a grunt. He’d forgotten her name last of all. Maybe that fact should make her happier.
He thrashed with the comforter. “Get me the hell out of here.”