Page 18 of The Bull Rider & the Wedding Planner

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Would you like to do it? I could put in a good word for you.”

She took a steadying breath and shook her head. “I thought Pastor was going to reprimand you for saying you planned to mess with the mama.” She arched her eyebrows.

Easton smiled. “That line did come across a bit more risqué than I intended.”

“Oh really?” She jutted out her chin. “What did you intend?”

“I meant that I’m going to mess with your mind, in the best possible way, sing to you, and steal your heart again. ‘You’re the only girl in mine.’” He sang out the Parmalee song, then bent down low and softly brushed his lips across that pulse point. She smelled incredible, like fresh flowers and springtime.

Cassie gasped and wrapped her hands around his shoulders. He straightened, surprised and thrilled that she’d initiated contact.

“Forgive me.” She yanked her hands away as quickly as she’d touched him, spun in his arms, and grabbed at a mess of silverware in the sink.

Easton’s arms were still around her and he was pressed against her back. He softly kissed the side of her neck and sang out an old song. “‘I got strong arms, I can help’.”

“No.” She pushed past his arm and shoved the silverware into the open dishwasher. Then she held up her hand and blinked at the blood dripping from her fingertip. “Oh, no.” She swayed and fell back against him.

Easton held her up with one arm, turning on the water with the other. Cassie could not handle blood. “Let’s rinse it off, love, and see how bad it is.” She must’ve grabbed a knife without realizing it in her haste to turn away from him.

He rinsed the finger off, still supporting her with his body and one arm. She said nothing, and her color wasn’t good. Had she passed out? It had happened before.

The water ran pink and then clear. He turned off the faucet and could see the slice on the side of her forefinger. It wouldn’t need stitches, but the blood seeped out again. He tore off a paper towel and pressed it to the wound. Turning, he directed her over to a kitchen chair. She sat and stared at him, eyes wide, her face pale.

“I know, you hate blood.” He smiled to try to reassure her.

“I do,” she murmured.

“I’ve got you.” He squatted in front of her and held pressure on the wound. Some blood seeped through. He folded the paper towel over and keptthe pressure on.

She took a shuddering breath, but her color looked better.

“Band-aids?” he asked.

She pointed toward a cupboard.

“Can you hold this for me?”

“What if it bleeds through?”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.” He was going five feet away, but he said the words seriously. He wanted to reassure her.

She grasped his shirt with her uninjured hand and begged, “You promise?” Her teal-blue eyes were intense. What had she gone through without him? He knew she could faint here, but he hadn’t expected the fear and vehemence at having him step away to grab a Band-aid.

“I promise. I’m going to be here for you, Cass.” He meant the words deeply. She may have cheated on him and yelled that she never wanted to see him again, but that had been six years ago. He was more than ready to talk all of that pain through, move past it, and be together again.

She studied him deeply. Did she believe him?

“Here’s what we’re going to do. Wrap your hand around your finger.”

She released his shirt and obeyed, her gaze never leaving his.

“Good. Now loop your elbow over the chair back.”

Again, she complied.

“Perfect. As I walk over here, you’re going to focus on how good these jeans fit me.”

She gave a shuddering chuckle.

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