No one moved. Hannah debated the merits of crawling under one of the seats until the world had the decency to end, but thoughts of hiding vanished when Sergei hopped across Brinley and stepped over Hannah’s legs, bending down to help her back to her feet.
“Hannah!” His eyes ran over her, top to bottom. “Are you okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Sergei directed an angry look toward the front of the bus where the driver sat watching them, unfazed. “Hey, man. How about making sure everyone is seated before hitting the brakes?”
Hannah didn’t have a chance to rightfully claim the blame, because Sergei was already ushering her off the bus while everyone stared openmouthed at the PA with the growing knot on her head. Yup, she could already feel it forming. Good God. She’d finally mustered up the courage to ask if she could observe the soundtrack process. Now she might as well just quit and start looking for positions as a sandwich-board operator.
Although, there were worse consequences to stupidity than having the dreamy director’s arm around her shoulders, helping her off the bus. This close, she could smell his aftershave, kind of an orangey clove scent. It was just like Sergei to pick something unique and unexpected. She looked up into his expressive face, at the black hair that met in the middle of his head in a subtle faux-hawk. His goatee was engineered to perfection.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d read too much into his concern. She’d start to wonder if maybe Sergei could learn to love an accident-prone supporting actress instead of a leading lady, after all?
Realizing she was staring, Hannah tore her wistful eyes off the man she’d been crushing on for two years—and saw Fox crossing the parking lot in their direction, his striking face a mask of alarm. “Hannah?”
Her mind made a scratchy humming sound, like the one a record makes in between songs. Probably because she’d communicated with this man every day for six—no, nearly seven—months now but never heard his voice. Perhaps because his identity had been whittled down to words on a screen, she’d forgotten that he commanded attention like a grand finale of fireworks in the night sky.
Without turning around, she knew every straight woman had her face pressed up against the windows of the bus, watching the maestro of feminine wetness cross the road, his dark blond hair blowing around in the wind, the lower half of his face covered in unruly, unshaped stubble, darker than the hair on his head.
With that pretty-boy face, he really should have been soft. Used to getting his way. Maybe, possibly even short. God, if you’re listening? But instead he looked like a troublemaker angel that got booted out of heaven, all tall and well-built and resilient and capable-looking. On top of everything else, he had to have the most dangerous job in the United States, the knowledge of fear and nature and consequences in his sea-blue eyes.
The relief of seeing Fox practically bowled her over, and she started to call out a greeting, until she realized the fisherman’s gravitational-pull eyes were homing in on Sergei, setting off a tectonic shift of plates in his cheeks.
“What happened to her?” Fox barked, bringing everything back to regular speed. Wait. When did her surroundings go into slow motion to begin with?
“I just fell on the bus,” Hannah explained, prodding her bumped head and wincing. Great, she’d split her skin slightly as well. “I’m fine.”
“Come on,” Fox said, still bird-dogging Sergei. “I’ll patch you up.”
She was about to raise a skeptical brow and ask to see his medical degree, but then she remembered a story Piper had told her. Fox had once given Brendan makeshift stitches for a bleeding forehead wound. All while keeping his balance during a hurricane.
Such was the life of a king crab fisherman.
Couldn’t he just be super short? Was that so much to ask?
“I’m fine,” she said, patting Sergei’s arm, letting him know she was okay to stand on her own. “Unless you have a cure for pride in your first-aid kit?”
Fox licked the seam of his lips, brows still drawn, and his attention slid back toward the director. “We’ll take a closer look when we get home. You have a bag I can carry or something?”
“I . . .” Sergei started, looking at Hannah as if there was something new about her and he wanted to figure out what it was. “I didn’t realize you were . . . so close to anyone in town.”
Close? To Fox? Seven months ago, she would have thought that a stretch. Now? It wasn’t exactly a lie. Lately, she’d been talking to him more often than Piper. “Well—”
Fox cut her off. “We should get that bump looked at, Freckles.”
“Freckles,” Sergei echoed, checking her nose for spots.
Was something afoot here?
Both men were inching toward her subtly, like she was the last slice of pizza.
“Um. My bag is in the luggage compartment of the bus.”
“I’ll get it,” they said at the same time.
Was her head wound releasing some kind of alpha pheromone?
Fox and Sergei sized each other up, clearly ready to argue about who was going to get her bag. The way her day was going, it would probably ensue in a tug-of-war, the zipper would break, and her underpants would rain down like confetti. “I’ll grab it,” Hannah said, before either one of them could speak, hotfooting it away from the masculinity maelstrom before it affected her brain.
She turned for the bus just as Brinley glided down the stairs, giving Fox a curious look that Hannah was amazed to see, thanks to the window’s reflection, he didn’t return. Those sea-blues were fastened on her bump, instead. Probably trying to decide which needle to use to mutilate her.
“Sergei,” Brinley called, twisting her earring. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, totally fine,” Hannah answered, beelining for the luggage compartment and attempting to open it. Everyone watched as she jerked on the handle, laughed, yanked more forcefully. Laughed again, then slammed her hip into it. No luck.
Before she could try a third time, Fox reached past her and opened it with a flick of his tan wrist. “You’re having a shit day, aren’t you?” he said for her ears alone.
She exhaled. “Yeah.”
He made a humming sound, tilted his head sympathetically. “Tell me which bag is yours and I’ll bring you back to my place.” Gently, he tugged on a strand of her hair. “Make it all better.”
It was totally possible she’d hit her head and ended up in an erotic sex dream with Fox Thornton. It wouldn’t be the first time—not that she would admit to that in a court of law. Or even to her sister. There was simply no way to combat the subtle transmissions he gave off that screamed, I’m good at sex. Like, really, really good. She was powerless against it. Thing was, that went for every other woman he came into contact with, too. And she had no interest in being one of thousands. That’s why they were friends. Hadn’t that been established? Why was he hitting on her?
“How . . . ? What do you mean by that? That you’ll make my day better. How are you going to do that?”
“I was thinking ice cream.” He gave her a smile that could only belong to an irreverent rascal—and, Lord, she’d forgotten about the dimples. Dimples, for crying out loud. “Why? What were you thinking?”