The Bucket List

7.2 The Intruder

There's a sickening pop as my fist connects with her face. Tiffany shrieks, hands flying to her nose; blood gushes between her fingertips. Tears stream down her face as shoots me a look so full of loathing I think I might combust.

"You should leave," Nicholai says calmly, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

Tiffany needs no further convincing. She spits blood onto the spines of a nearby cactus and storms off, already chattering angrily into her phone, somehow having materialized in her hand with alarming speed. I watch her go with dwindling satisfaction, hand throbbing. The reality of what I've done is already starting to sink in.

Oh, good. Guess we can add assault to my record.

I shoot Nicholai a panicked look. He raises an eyebrow. I'm not sure if it's a challenge, but the apology on my lips shrivels up and dies.

"She deserved it," I say, stubborn as ever.

His answering grin is utterly dazzling. Dazed, I allow him to steer me into the house, his hand lingering at the small of my back. I try to arch away from his touch, convinced there must be a pool of sweat the size of Lake Michigan back there. But he doesn't seem to mind.

"Sit," he commands as we enter the kitchen, gesturing to a length of pristine counter.

I glance around, curious. There is no flurry of activity, not today. We're utterly alone.

I cradle my throbbing hand. "I'm fine."

"Sit." He throws me a warning look over his shoulder.

I wriggle onto the counter and cross my ankles for modesty's sake, watching Nicholai dig around in the freezer. There's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as if he might burst out in a fit of laughter at any moment.

I know I shouldn't stare, but since he's preoccupied, I let myself admire him, if only for a brief moment. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing the skin of his forearms, painted with ink. Another surprise. I never imagined he'd be the type to have a tattoo.

When he straightens, I look away, staring resolutely at my knuckles, the skin there red and raw. Nicholai reappears at my side an instant later. Ignoring my feeble protests—my hand really does hurt—he takes my injured hand and presses the makeshift ice pack to my fingers. I hiss.

He's grinning again. "You have a mean right hook."

"Something to keep in mind," I warn him half-heartedly.

He readjusts his grip, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist. I shudder and tell myself it's from the ice.

Maybe Nicholai and Gabby have a point. I am a terrible liar.

A few minutes pass in silence. I begin to fidget, impatient. "Nicholai—" I start.

"Thank you." We make eye contact.

We're very close. Close enough to make out the scent of his aftershave. Something sharp and alluring. "No problem," I say weakly. "You better warn Chester. I'm coming after his job."

"He'll be so disappointed."

A drop of freezing water lands on my thigh. I suck in a startled breath. Nicholai brushes the water away absentmindedly, his touch featherlight.

The pain in my hand vanishes—forgotten. Nicholai's fingers linger against my skin, trailing dangerously close to the hem of my dress. The look in his eyes shifts as he gazes down at me.

"Hey, Nick—"

Nicholai steps back, putting distance between us. My skin burns with the imprint of his touch. I slap my free hand over the ice pack, face burning as the newcomers step into the kitchen.