Free Love 'Em: A Bad Boy Romance by Kelley Harvey Page A

him, holding me tightly to his naked chest
with all that muscle under my cheek. “Yes, my head’s throbbing like a bitch, but
keep holding me right here against your chest and all that masculine scent. I’m
certain I’ll feel better in a few hours.”
    His voice rumbles through my head, vibrating in his chest.
“Yeah, okay. Now I know you need to go see a doctor. I’ll hold you anywhere you
want after they fix you up.”
    I pull back. “Tell me I didn’t say that out loud.”
    His cocky grin confirms that I did just that.
    He pushes his shirt more firmly into place, half of it
hanging over my face. “Here, you hold it. I’ll drive. Don’t worry; I’ll let you
rub my chest later . ”

    Jackson stands at the emergency care place and taps the
front desk, his tone stern. “I can appreciate that she’s not the only patient,
but she’s bleeding. Can we please get her something to stem the flow other than
my sweaty shirt?”
    I sit in a molded plastic chair, enjoying the entertainment.
My head doesn’t hurt too much. It stings like fire, but the headache isn’t
terrible. There does seem to be a lot of blood, but I think that’s the norm for
a head wound. The girls behind the counter seem determined to keep me in the
waiting area as long as possible, probably so they can continue to drool over
Jackson’s naked torso. Can’t say that I blame them.
    When he turns back to me, the girl he spoke to uses her
phone to take a photo of him.
    Jack pushes his fingers through his hair, falling into the seat
next to mine. His fingers lace with mine, and he pulls my hand to his mouth,
kissing each of my knuckles.
    He abruptly stands and drags me out of my seat. “Fuck this.
I’m taking you to my house.”

SEVEN

    Jackson keeps one hand on the wheel and one entwined with
mine. “I’ll call Doc. He’ll come out and fix you.”
    He’s said some variation of that sentence at least three
times since he bundled me into his car.
    I flip the visor down and pull his shirt away from my head.
“I have no idea what kinds of prices doctors who make house calls charge. I
really don’t think it’s that bad. I can probably put a butterfly bandage over
it and it’ll be fine.”
    “That’s your face. No. You need to have it looked at. What
if they need to do some kind of plastic surgery to keep it from scarring?” He
squeezes my hand, massaging the back of it with his thumb. “No. Don’t worry
about the money. I got it. It’s not a problem.”
    “Plastic surgery?” I push the bloody hair out of the way. “No.
It’s not that big. And it’s right in the hairline. A scar probably won’t show.”
    “Humor me, will you?”
    Humor him? It’s my head we’re talking about.
    The wound is about an inch long, but it might be bigger. Damn.
Freaking plastic surgery? That’s going to cost about a million dollars I’ll
never have.
    He pulls into the driveway of a modern, multi-level home. My
stomach quivers as my gaze moves from the seemingly freshly stained wooden
doors of his garage to Jackson, and back again.
    Good gracious. This house. Jackson Tremaine. What am I even
doing with him, much less at his home? He’s so far out of my league it isn’t
funny.
    At the door, Jackson stops. “Bull is harmless, but big.”
    “Bull?”
    He opens the door, but before he can step inside, a freaking
gigantic dog tumbles outside. Jack takes hold of the thing’s collar before it can
run me over.
    I take two steps backward. “He’s—he’s the size of a small
car.”
    The monster has old-man jowls. A string of slobber hangs
from one corner of his mouth.
    Jack scratches the beast behind his ears. “Yeah, he’s a
rescue dog, so there’s some debate on exactly what breeds make up his family
tree. But, we’re fairly sure he’s got some bull mastiff.”
    “Thus the name Bull.” I tentatively hold out my palm to let him
sniff.
    He doesn’t smell my hand; he licks it with his soft, slimy
tongue. Ew.
    “Down, boy. Wait to kiss the girls