“Agghhh, fuck, that hurt. What the hell. Are you a secret ninja or something? Creeping up on people and scaring them. What is wrong with you, you idiot?” I hop around on one foot in a pair of cream Jimmy Choos while I’m waving my injured foot in the air, which is screaming in pain at me.

“Asks the woman who is doing weightlifting in my kitchen with the chopping board. Who is the weirdo here, huh?” The smug smile on his face tells me he thinks this is funny, but it’s far from it.

“I should sue you for breaking my toe,” I snap, looking down at my foot. “And wrecking my favorite pair of shoes. Look at the mark on it. I’m going to have to throw them out now.” I point my shoe toward him, but he doesn’t even look and is moving toward me. Before I even have time to say a word, his hands are on my waist and hoisting me up onto the kitchen counter.

My mouth drops open.

His big hand wraps around my calf, and the other one already has the shoe off and it falls to the ground. The sheer stockings are not enough to stop the sensation of his skin touching mine.

“Wriggle your toes.” His deep voice has me doing as he asks, but not because he told me to. I want to see for myself that they are okay, even though they hurt like hell.

“Not broken. Like I thought, a drama queen.” His words piss me off, and even though my foot hurts, I use it to kick his thigh that he had it resting on while assessing my toes.

“Seriously,” he growls at me but doesn’t even flinch or move away; he just looks annoyed now.

“You know I don’t like to be touched.”

“Fine.” He releases my leg, and again, I know I’m being a bitch, but it just seems to happen around him.

I try to wriggle my butt off the counter, but every wriggle I try to maneuver just pulls my skirt that much farther up my thighs as the silk underskirt slides on my stockings. Forrest is getting to see a lot higher up my thighs than I want him to, and I know I can’t jump down, especially in one high heel and the other foot already in pain.

“Ughhh,” I grunt, looking back up at Forrest who is standing in front of me, leaning against the cupboard on the other side of the kitchen. His arms are crossed, and I didn’t even notice before that he has his sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up. My eyes gravitate to the veins running up his arms, and that just makes me squirm even more where I’m sitting.

“Need help?” he taunts me.