Page 113 of The Christmas Wife

The spatula connects with his hand… His injured hand. His shoulders bunch and the color fades from his cheeks. To his credit, he doesn’t cry out in pain. His big body goes solid; his chest planes seem to expand and grow bigger as he draws in a breath. Then he takes a step back, another, until the backs of his knees connect with one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He sinks down into it, brings his hand up to his chest and cradles it there. Sweat beads his forehead.

"Ow," he mumbles.

"Bloody apple crumble," I wheeze. The spatula slips from my hand, falls to the floor, bounces once. Gooey chocolate sprays across the floor, dots the edges of his sweats.

"Oh. My," I gasp, "Ohmygod." I take a step forward and my foot slides on the chocolate crepe batter. I stumble, then right myself. "Oh, hell," I cry. "I am so sorry. So sorry. I didn’t mean it." I leap forward, reach for his hand.

He jerks back.

I freeze.

"I didn’t mean it. You surprised me," I blubber, "Did I hurt you? Ohmigod, omigod, of course, I hurt you. Oh my?—"

"Stop," he barks out the command.

I stutter, "I’m sorry, I really am."

"You mean you didn’t hurt me on purpose?"

I open and close my mouth. "How could you think that?" I cry. "Do you really think I would?—?"

One side of his mouth curls.

I purse my lips together. "You horrible man." I step toward him.

He holds up his good hand, "Stop, before you make it worse."

"Oh." A pressure builds behind my eyes. "Is it bad? Did I break it again?"

"It hadn’t healed enough for that to happen." He grunts, "No, you hit the finger in the same place it broke the first time around."

"I didn’t." I scowl. I hadn’t hit his finger, only his palm, I swear. I stare at his finger in the splint, then back up at his face. "You’re so adept at working around that, that I forget sometimes you are injured."

"Is that a compliment for my dexterity?" His lips kick up.

"Something like that." I stare at his features. His color’s definitely better than it was a minute ago. "Do you want any painkillers?" I shuffle my weight from foot to foot, "Maybe some of the chocolate cookies I baked and brought here?"

"Haven’t you given them to Mother?" He frowns.

I glance away, twist my fingers together. "You were right. It was a stupid idea. I should have ordered something from the shops or stopped on the way here to buy something."

"It was a thoughtful gesture," he replies.

I shoot him a sideways glance. Is he, like, pulling my leg?

He meets my gaze, holds up his hand and winces.

"Oh." My chest tightens. "It’s hurting, isn’t it? Is it bleeding? Sure I can’t get you something for the pain?" I step forward. He widens his stance. I slip in between his legs, glance at his injured palm. "Can you, uh, wiggle the other fingers or something?"

He bends the others, shows me the bird by default.

"Guess you’re feeling all right, huh?" I slide back, but he moves his thighs in, traps me in place.

"Oh." I gulp.

"Hmm," he tilts his head, "were you serious about your earlier offer?"

Which one?"

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