Page 46 of Redemption

“Let me see,” he said, his evaluation turning more clinical. It wasn’t a request.

“I’m not going to lift my dress to show you.” I’d tried looking at it earlier in the mirror, but it was difficult to twist around to see when it already hurt.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Then unzip it because we aren’t going anywhere until I’ve checked your injuries.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” I planted my hands on my hips.

“I do—” he leaned forward “—when it comes to your safety.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re making this into a much bigger deal than it is.”

He barked out a laugh. “I was just thinking the same about you.”

I held his gaze, and he held mine, both of us just as stubborn as ever.

“Come on. I know I’m your bodyguard, but I’m also your friend.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

“It’s what I’d like to be,” he said, surprising me.

“Okay, friend.” I emphasized the word because it felt ridiculous to think of Jackson as my friend, considering our past. “Let’s get going. I’m hungry.”

He patted his stomach. “Mm. I hear Erica’s Bakery has the best rum cake in the world. And you know how everything here runs on island time,” he continued. “It’d be a shame to miss out.”

I narrowed my eyes to slits, even as my mouth watered. I loved rum cake, and he knew I’d been dying to visit that bakery. He was evil.

“Ugh. Fine,” I huffed, unwilling to miss out on “the best rum cake in the world,” according to fellow travelers. “You win. You are such an ass.”

“What was that? You like my ass?” He glanced over his shoulder, lifting his hip. “Thanks. It does look good in these pants.”

I laughed, unable to help myself. It did look good, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Instead, I swatted at him, feeling lighter and more relaxed.

At least until he twirled his finger and said, “Turn.”

He wasn’t going to relent. And deep down, part of me knew he was right to insist. Out on the ocean, we were a team, and downplaying or hiding our injuries did both of us a disservice.

I swallowed hard and did as he’d asked, putting my back to him. His breath skimmed along my shoulder, and I shivered.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Here.” I pointed to my side—the back of my ribs.

“I’m going to lower your zipper now.” His voice was gravelly. “Okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” I gulped. But I wasn’t prepared for the way the zipper hissed loudly as it slid down my back. Or the way my skin pebbled with goose bumps when he gently pushed the fabric aside. I bit back the urge to cry out.

“I’m, uh, I need to lower this side of your dress to get a better look.”

I slid my arm out of the strap and then held it to my chest.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to touch you now.”

I braced myself for it, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the feeling of his fingers as they drifted over my skin. I sucked in a sharp breath. My eyes closed of their own accord, and my pain was momentarily forgotten.

His voice was rough when he spoke again. “Does that hurt?”

“A little,” I said, though mostly I was responding to his touch. It was light, but his hands were warm, sending sparks of need skittering across my skin.

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