Page 12 of Caesar DeLuca
She almost smiles. “Didn’t I already make it clear I’m not telling you?”
“Then how am I supposed to know you’re not affiliated with Carisi?” I snap.
Her hands come to her shapely hips. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“I don’t do trust. The last time I trusted somebody, I wound up stabbed and locked in a coffin at the bottom of a lake.”
“I’m… not so sure I’d trust people either after that. Mind if I check how you’re doing? Your wound needs to be cleaned and your bandages changed.” She gestures to a soapy water bowl and a thick, Terry-cloth towel on the tray, then juts her chin at my abdomen.
I glance down to realize the t-shirt I’m wearing has a couple of dried bloodspots.
“From last night,” she says, reading my mind. “You put up a big struggle and busted a few stitches open. I had to restitch you up. I don’t have a lot of men’s clothes here… so I haven’t been able to clean the one you have on… unless you let me wash and dry it real quick.”
“Men’s clothes,” I repeat. My tone’s a bitter one. I push myself up ’til I’m sitting upright. “Whose shirt is this?”
Her brows draw closer. “It’s all I had?—”
“Take it,” I say, tugging it over my head and tossing it at her. “I don’t want to wear your man’s clothes.”
“They’re not my?—”
“Get me my things and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“You can’t go anywhere. It’s below zero degrees out. The snow hasn’t?—”
“Don’t try to play this game, lady,” I interrupt coldly. “Let me go and we won’t have any problems.”
“Are you always this rude to people who try to help you?”
“I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t ask to be here.”
“You’re right. You didn’t… but ever think about what would’ve happened if I didn’t stop and pick you up? You would’ve bled out or froze to death. Take your pick.” She throws the shirt back at me, the plain cotton smacking me in the bare chest. “And take care of yourself. All I’ve done is try to help you and you’ve been a difficult ass every step of the way. If you want to go, then go! I won’t stop you.”
She spins on her heel, her long robe whipping along with her, and starts to march off.
But she doesn’t get very far. My arms are long enough to reach out and grip her by the elbow to stop her before she can.
“Alright,” I concede, though begrudgingly. I’m even scowling. “You’ve got a point. I probably wouldn’t have lasted long if you hadn’t found me.”
She remains stubbornly where she is, almost a pouty look developing about her. If I’m honest, it’s fucking sexy. It’s in how her bottom lip pokes out slightly more than usual, her full cheeks accentuating the feature, drawing even more attention to how kissable she is.
…did she really have me wearing her man’s clothes?
A sudden, unexpected beat of jealousy drums to life inside me. I squash it a second later.
You don’t know this lady. Get a fucking grip, Caesar.
“Do what you came in here to do,” I say, gesturing to my bandaged stomach. “Clean my wound and bandage me up.”
“Can I get a please on that?”
“Can you tell me who you are?”
She sighs, her nostrils flaring. “Only if you promise you’ll behave yourself.”
“Define behalf myself.”
There it is again—her almost smile.
