Page 33 of Scrooge

“Just let me look at it,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for pushback, so I let him lift my leg again and peer at my knee. The jeans are ruined, the hole in them looking much larger and much more damaged than my injury actually is.

“How is that?” he asks as he touches the graze softly with the cool cloth, and I close my eyes.

“It feels nice.” The soothing coolness against the raging red graze calms it all down a little.

“I will buy you some new jeans,” he murmurs, and I open my eyes, seeing him looking straight at me.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, shaking my head, giving him a small smile.

“I don’t like to see you injured.” His thumb rubs my calf muscle as he removes the cloth and takes another look. I have a sudden urge to run my fingers through his hair as it falls forward onto his forehead. I grip on to the pristine sofa until my fingers are white-knuckled to prevent them from moving. Him kneeling on the floor at my feet twists something in my gut. His soft touch, his caring nature. All of it makes my body tingle, my temperature soar.

“I’m fine. It was all just a little unexpected.” I ease my leg from his grip, needing to create some space. He remains kneeling for a minute, again looking over me thoroughly until he obviously is happy that I am being truthful, then he stands.

“Nightcap? Whiskey? To settle the nerves?” he asks as he walks to his bar area and pours himself one.

“Thanks,” I agree, looking over what I think is a pretty established collection of whiskey at a bar. It doesn’t look like a home where he invites people over. He also isn’t that person, I don’t think.

I walk across the room to the windows and peer out. The lights are sparkling, New York’s on full show, and she looks glorious from up here. “This is amazing,” I say, gazing over the familiar streets and buildings I have come to love over the years.

“It’s quiet,” he says, walking toward me, and I take the glass, the weight of it surprising.

“And you like quiet,” I state, coming to understand Alex is a pretty simple man.

“I like simple.” He can read my mind, and I snort.

“Well, that is something I am not,” I say, huffing a laugh at myself. I am the complete opposite. Crazy, messy, secondhand clothes, live with my sister and her kids. My life is chaotic, but I love it.

“So I am coming to learn,” he murmurs as he watches me intently. I take in a sharp breath. It’s like he might kiss me again, but I need to remind myself this is an agreement.

“A toast to a successful partnership so far,” I say, trying to instill some professionalism into the situation. Because that is what this is. I can’t go thinking this is anything else.

“To a successful partnership.” His eyes never leave mine as we clink glasses.

The whiskey burns when I drink too much and start coughing.

“Jesus, I forgot how potent this stuff is,” I say, my eyes watering. “My lips are burning. Are they swollen? Red?”

“Show me.”

I look up, and a lone tear runs down my cheek, but his eyes are firmly on my lips. I suck the bottom one in, licking it to remove any excess whiskey that spilled over, and I watch his eyes flare.

“It’s one hundred proof,” he says as his eyes lock back on mine. His free hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing across my lip, following the path my tongue just made. The temperature in the room just increased tenfold. No one can see us, there are no media here, no reason for him to be acting so sweet. The way he cups my head and touches my lips has me feeling things I haven’t in a very long time.

“It tastes like gasoline,” I tell him, coughing again, and his lips quirk a little.

“Don’t let the Whitemans hear you compare their whiskey to gasoline.”

I look back at my glass, knowing that if it is Whiteman’s Whiskey that fills it, a bottle probably costs more than my annual income.

“It certainly warmed my chest.” The taste isn’t too bad after giving it time to settle. He removes his hands from my face, and I watch him as he throws back the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, then slides the empty glass on the mirrored side table next to him. I already miss his touch, and I have to shake off that feeling.

“There is a kids’ soccer game coming up. Sheridan talked me into donating or something,” he says, dismissing it like it means nothing. “I think you should come with me.”

“Sure, I mean, that’s another date, right? We should probably be doing those kinds of things together.” I nod. It makes sense. “Do you do any other community or charity work?” I ask because that is something I am interested in and can really get behind. I would like to bond with him more on those kinds of things. Charitable causes, community support. It is important to me, and if it is important to him as well, then we will have some common ground.

“No,” he says firmly.

“No?” I question as I take another tentative sip of the whiskey. It feels much better gliding down my throat this time around.

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