I wasn’t so lucky.
When I fell backward, my other heel went through the thick canvas and stuck, and my body curved around in the opposite direction. I screamed out as my ankle twisted painfully, and I landed ass-over-tits into blue paint and torn canvas.
“Sweet Jesus!” The man I tried to get away from stepped into the mess and pulled me up by the armpits. His golden brown eyes were mesmerizing and worried. Small lines at the corners of each eye revealed he was probably a good decade older than I. Sandy brown hair with hints of russet gold and red streaked through in natural highlights was pulled tight into a small bun at the back of his head. A sculpted jaw and full lips were rimmed with perfectly trimmed facial hair. I’d never dated a man with a beard, but standing in front of this man, strong arms holding me close to a very tall and muscular frame, I couldn’t fathom why I never had. He was drop dead gorgeous. Reminded me of Ben Affleck only way hotter.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw you standing there, and your beauty was far beyond the likes of any mere model. I had to press my lips against your golden skin. You must be My Mia,” he said with admiration. His caramel gaze scanning my features from the tips of my hair down to my spike-heeled boots. I would be tossing those boots the minute I could remove them from my rapidly swelling ankle.
A quick test by placing the ball of my injured foot to the ground sent pain ripping through my ankle and shooting up my leg. I cried out and gripped the man’s forearms, digging my nails into his flesh. “Oh my, you’re really hurt!”
“Ya think?” I rolled my eyes as he used his long arms to swoop me under the knees into a princess style carry and rushed me over to an arched loveseat. Only it wasn’t a love seat, it had a curved back that started high on one end then came down low on the other. It was the type of furniture you’d see in old romantic movies where the damsel in distress would faint perfectly onto it; hand over her forehead slumping down with a pretty sigh. Me, I was gritting my teeth and ready to bite anyone that even so much as shifted my leg.
“I’ll call a medic!” One of the ever-present men in black said to the stranger, who, by then, I’d surmised was my client.
“No, ce n'est pas nécessaire,” he said in rapid French. “Contact 3B. She’s a doctor and a friend,” he said his eyes boring into mine. “You’ll be fine, Mia,” he assured me, and when he spoke with that slight accent I may have actually swooned; a definite clench occurred between my thighs. Men with accents were deadly sexy. Then again, it could have been the pain raging through my limb that had me clenching. I was pretty sure it was the former.
Within moments, a tiny speck of a woman rushed in holding what looked to be an old-fashioned medical doctor’s bag. She introduced herself and helped me slide off my boot without jarring the leg. She may have been a miracle worker. A snicker could be heard over my shoulder as the doctor was prodding my ankle. I looked over at my client whom I knew to be Alec Dubois, though we hadn’t actually exchanged pleasantries yet.
“What?”
“Your socks. Positively enchanting, ma jolie,” he finished in French, which sounded sexy as hell but pissed me off even more, because I didn’t know what it meant. Could be anything like klutz, or moron, but I’d never know. I looked down at my Christmas socks and then at the doctor. Her lips curved up, but she stayed completely professional as she checked my ankle. Her, I liked; the jury was still out on hunky French camera guy.
“Well, it’s not broken. You’ve got a slight sprain. I’ll wrap it, but keep off it as much as possible, and you’ll be good as new in a couple weeks. You’ll need to rest it, ice it, elevate above your heart and keep it wrapped. I suggest getting some crutches,” she said and my shoulders sagged in defeat. I hated crutches. The entire world hated crutches. They sucked. Bad. I was not looking forward to the skin around my underarms being worn raw or feeling bruised, along with the bum ankle, especially on a new job. I wondered if he’d want a refund on his purchase. A moment of panic shredded through my heart thinking about my dad and how I’d get the next installment to Blaine if French guy didn’t want me now that I was damaged.
“I’ll take perfect care of you, ma jolie. You needn’t worry for a thing,” Alec sat down next to me placing an arm protectively around my waist sliding me close, so close it was as if he’d know me for years not moments. He definitely had some serious space invasion issues. Even so, it felt nice and helped relieve the fear that he was going to send me home.
“Retournez au travail,” His obvious instruction was punctuated with some arm movements before he lifted me as if I weighed nothing.