Page 30 of Jane Deyre

With my other hand, I point to it. “That thing sitting on the floor.”

He glances at it and then returns his attention to me. “You should have asked me to do that.”

“I was eager to get it hung.”

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He returns quickly with a small bucket of ice and a dishtowel. I watch as he wraps the towel over a handful of ice. Tenderly, he takes my trembling hand and puts the ice pack to my finger. I wince. His warmth offsets my chill.

“This is going to help numb the pain. Stop the bleeding. I want you to hold it to your finger while I wrangle up some first aid.”

A few minutes later, he’s back with an old-fashioned tin of Band-Aids and some Neosporin. They must have been left by whoever lived here before. Maybe he did? And that vintage typewriter in the living room is his?

He sets the first aid down on the bed. And sits down next to me on the edge. Our legs almost touching. So close to me I feel his heat in my bones. The warmth of his breath on my skin. The intoxicating woodsy scent of him drifts up my nose, making me dizzier than I already am.

“Let me see your finger.”

Slowly, I remove the ice pack. I examine my finger. It’s red and swollen, but the bleeding has subsided.

“How does it feel?”

“A little better.” Actually, it does. The ice has numbed the throb.

He studies it. “It still looks pretty gruesome.”

“I’ve had a lot worse injuries.” What I mean by that is both in quantity and in severity. Burns from cigarette butts... split lips from punches... bloodied knees from having been shoved to the pavement, and more. The worst being the three-inch gash to my thigh, a wound that required thirty stitches to close. Leaving an ugly scar in its place. A souvenir from John Reed, who just for fun, dug his pocketknife into my thigh. And lied to his parents that the loose fender of his pickup had caught my flesh. As usual, they believed their “can do no wrong” son.

The painful memory evaporates when Mr. Rochester tenderly lifts my hand. I’ve never had anyone, let alone a man, care for me. Foster parents ignored me. Didn’t care. After John Reed stabbed me, I hitched a ride to the nearest clinic to get the wound treated. I’ve been wounded a lot. Both physically and emotionally. There is no bandage big enough to cover my wounded heart. It’s been hurt so many times I’ve lost count. The scars permanent.

I watch as he squirts a dollop of the antiseptic ointment onto his forefinger and applies it to my cuticle. His touch is gentle. Reverent.

He sets the ointment down and then retrieves a Band-Aid from the box. He peels it open, discarding the wrapper on the floor. “Okay, now hold still.”

It’s hard to hold still. With this gorgeous man a breath away from me. His flesh touching mine. Heating me. A rush of tingles shimmies through me. How can I hold still when I want to jump out of my skin?

My eyes stay on him as he wraps the bandage around my fingertip.

I wiggle my finger. “Thanks.”

For the first time, I see him smile. He’s got a great smile, sharing the same dimples as his daughter. It makes him even more alluring than he is. The affect of it on me is like a balm. Or more like an elixir. I suddenly feel a lot better.

He casts his eyes on my vision board. “So, while I’m here, do you want me to hang your mission board?”

“Vision board,” I correct, with a little laugh. I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a mission board. If there is, there’s a difference. In my mind, a mission board is one with dreams that have deadlines. A vision board is one with dreams that float in space indefinitely. Like non-functional space junk. Maybe it would be better if I had the former. I’d achieve my dreams faster. Calculate a path and stay on it. Rather than wander down a path of breadcrumbs that leads nowhere.

Mr. Rochester cuts into my ruminations. “Well, Miss Deyre?”

“Yeah, that would be great. Want me to help?”

“No, stay put, Calamity Jane. You don’t have any more Band-Aids.”

I stifle a half laugh, half cry. The perfect name for me. My whole life has been a calamity. One big disaster.

He heads over to the board. “I’m making you the director.”

“You mean like in a movie?”

“Kind of.” He smiles again. “All you have to do is tell me how high or low you want the board.”

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