“Now hold on. It’s just a bit of fun,” offered the man.
“At whose expense?” Hannah shouted, turning in a circle, searching the ground.
Fox, who’d been standing behind her completely dumbfounded, caught between awe and self-disgust, forced his throat to start working. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for something to throw at them,” she explained patiently.
“Okay, how is Piper the one that ended up in jail?” He wrapped a forearm around her waist and shuttled her down the street toward his building, no idea what to say. None. He’d never had anyone stand up for him like that.
And he didn’t want the breathless warmth winging its way into his chest. Would never be ready for the . . . dangerous hope that started to rise to the surface. Hope that if this girl believed he was worth a damn—enough to defend him in the street like this—maybe he was worth the effort?
No. Been there, done that whole dance with optimism. Wanted no part of it.
Right?
“Hannah, you didn’t need to do that. In fact, I wish you hadn’t.”
He really didn’t enjoy the flash of hurt in her eyes. “They were way out of line.”
“No, they weren’t.” He laughed, even though it felt like razor blades. “They know it’s okay to make those jokes to me, because I make them about myself. It’s fine.”
“Yeah, it really sounds fine,” she murmured, allowing Fox to pull her up the stairs of his building, standing silently as he unlocked the door. Part of him, honest to God, wanted to throw his arms around her and say thank you, but no. No, he didn’t need a defender. He’d earned that ridicule, fair and square, hadn’t he?
The last seven months were nothing but an anomaly.
Even if his celibacy, even if the constant of Hannah’s friendship, had made him feel better about himself than he had in years.
They walked into the apartment, and Fox turned on the one and only lamp.
He wanted to shut himself in his bedroom, before the shame of Hannah witnessing that ridicule on the walk home seeped out through his pores and turned visible, but he couldn’t let her hurt expression be the last thing he saw that night. So Fox did what he did best and made light of it. “Have to admit, I’m pretty impressed by your creative use of the term ‘ball sac.’ Ten out of ten.”
Her lips crept up into a smile on one end. “Are we okay?” She wet her lips. “Are you?”
“Everything is fine, Freckles.” He laughed, the empty apartment mocking him. “Get some sleep, huh? See you in the A.M.”
After a moment, she nodded. And that’s where he left her, staring after him thoughtfully, halfway between the kitchen and the front door.
As soon as Fox was alone in his bedroom, he dropped his forehead to the cool door, barely resisting the urge to bash his head against it. Obviously he hadn’t fooled Hannah into thinking he didn’t give a shit about anything. That life was just a series of pleasures and amusements for him. This girl, she saw through it. Worse, she wanted to reach him. But he couldn’t let that happen.
And he knew exactly how to prevent her from looking too deeply.
Chapter Nine
Hannah woke up at six A.M. with mice using her brain as a trampoline.
Her hand slapped down on the side table, fingers closing around her AirPods, shoving them into her ears. Next came her phone, her thumb locating the music app and selecting Zella Day from her library, letting the notes drift through the fog and wake her up slowly. Today was Sunday. Not an ideal day for working, but it was her first day on set as slightly more than a production assistant—she was an observer now, ooh, ahh—and she needed to set the right tone. Calm but focused.
Hannah, you didn’t need to do that. In fact, I wish you hadn’t.
Fox’s reprimand from the night before came rushing back, and the mice ceased bouncing on her brain, creeping off to go hide in a hole somewhere. Oh man, she’d really yelled at those old men from the middle of the street, hadn’t she? Not a dream? Truthfully, she was fine owning that reaction. Even if she had thrown something at them, they would have deserved the resulting concussion.
They’d deserved it for treating him—anyone, really—with so little respect.
Why didn’t Fox think so?
He’d seemed fine before bed. Maybe the alcohol had amplified a situation that was really no big deal? What if fishermen simply spoke to each other that way and she’d misread the intention behind it?
But none of it sat right, so she resolved to ask Fox about it later and forced herself to focus on the upcoming day at work. She ran through the scenes in her mind, searching for inspiration to enrich the score, but an hour passed without anything feeling exactly right. Which was concerning. She’d never gone so far as to think scoring movies was her calling. That would have been putting the cart way before the horse. But she’d always been confident in her ability to pull songs from memory to perfect the mood of any situation. What if she’d been too confident?
The scent of ginger distracted Hannah from her troubling thoughts.
It wasn’t an unpleasant smell at all. Quite the opposite. It was almost . . . stimulating in its richness? And she’d smelled it in the apartment before, but never so strong. What was that?
Hannah tossed aside the covers and climbed out of bed, leaving her AirPods in on the way to the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and used the toilet, grudgingly removing the earbuds to shower. Fox had no reason to be awake this early, so she tried to be as quiet as possible, wrapping a towel tightly around her body and tiptoeing toward the guest room.
When the door to his bedroom opened and he breezed out, mid-yawn, in nothing but black briefs, Hannah ran smack into the side of the couch, sending a jolt of pain through her hip. It sent her stumbling back a couple of feet, her ass bumping into a floor lamp. Seriously, leave it to her to find two of the only pieces of furniture in the extremely sparse apartment and hit them . . . and now she was staring. Of course she was staring. What else was she supposed to do?
Fox was coming toward her with a lopsided grin and barely any clothes.
Dimples out. Ready to film a razor commercial.
And whoa. Until that moment, she hadn’t even been aware of his tattoos.
The outline of an actual fox stretching across his right hip, a giant squid wrapped around an anchor on the left side of his rib cage, a series of different-sized stars on his pec, plus other ones she didn’t have the wherewithal to decipher because his muscles were demanding attention. Were muscles supposed to be so thick? Yes. Yes, because he hadn’t bought these in a gym. He’d come by them hauling giant steel pots out of the water, pulling in nets of fish, from balancing on a deck during rough weather.
“Whoa there, Freckles,” he said in a raspy morning voice, tipping his head toward the teetering lamp. “Still getting your sea legs?”
“Um . . .” Resolutely, she looked down at the floor. “I guess I’m more hungover than I realized. Better lay low tonight.”
The closer he came, the stronger the scent of ginger. And the harder it became not to look at Fox in all his nearly naked glory. Listen, Hannah got horny with the best of them. Once in a while, at least. Mostly when listening to Prince. But the times she’d felt slightly wanting and uncomfortable were a far cry from this cinching of muscles, this filtering of warmth to her private areas.