Page 57 of Burn for You

“I thought you said she doesn’t trust men?” I say, taking a seat on one of the bar stools.

“Oh, she doesn’t,” she says, her focus on the water running over her hand. “But Dave is… well, he’s Dave. He’s never going to hurt my mom. He couldn’t hurt a fly. Plus, she doesn’t let him close enough to hurt her. That’s the most important part.”

I relish in the tidbits of information she’s sharing with me. Even though she might not think she’s giving me much, I’ll take anything when it comes to learning about May. I don’t know when I started feeling like that.

I think about it. The way that I’ve never seen May with a guy for longer than a single night since she’s been here. It could be due to the fact that all the guys she’s been with are twats, or maybe it’s got something to do with her mom’s advice. But surely May has had serious boyfriends. I can’t believe there’s never been a person who got a hold of her and didn’t let go.

“What time do you have to work tomorrow?” She asks almost mindlessly. I’m still adjusting to this new dynamic between us. I think she is too.

“I actually have the day off.”

Her head snaps up to look at me across the countertop. “Are you sick?” Her eyes survey my face for any sign of illness.

“No, just needing a day away.”

“Hm,” she nods mindlessly. “How long do I have to do this for?”

I nearly smile at her impatience. “How does it feel?”

She pulls it out of the water, inspecting it. “Worse now that I’m looking at it.”

“I can wrap it for you.” Her eyes flick to mine. “I have some bandages from an old injury.”

“What injury?”

I refrain from telling her that it’s from when I burnt my hand at Rosemary Cottage. “Are you always this nosy?”

“Yeah, kinda,” she shrugs.

I sigh. “Do you want my help or not?”

She nods.

I grab my bandages from the bathroom and walk back out to the kitchen. “Sit.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I’m not a dog.”

I roll my eyes, but then I clear my throat. “Miss, would you care to sit down, if you please?”

Her face deadpans, but she trudges over to me and sits on the stool I pulled out for her.

She watches me with a close eye as I place a gauze pad over her burn. She hisses as the fabric touches her skin. “Sorry,” I say.

She shakes her head. “It’s okay.”

I can feel her breath on my skin, we’re that close. Add that to the way I can feel her pulse where I’m holding her wrist, and my focus turns hazy as I begin to wrap the bandage around her hand.

Being this close to her sends my mind spinning into places where it shouldn’t go. Like how soft her skin feels under my touch, how badly I want to trace her entire body with my fingertips and see if she’s that soft everywhere. It’s a good thing I haven't touched her until now, because I think I'm addicted already. I blink the thoughts away as I clip the bandage in place and let go of her hand, but it doesn’t help my focus when I look up into her green eyes.

“Thank you.”

I clear my throat. “Sure.”

She pushes off the stool, immediately picking up where she left off with her cooking.

I sit at the island, watching her as she works. Fascinated by her as she lays a spaghetti sauce over her cooked chicken, followed bya generous sprinkling of cheese on the top. I like watching her work. Like seeing the muscles in the back of her legs flex as she bends down to put the meal in the oven.

She pulls it out once the cheese has melted on the top, and the sauce has thickened, laying the dish on the countertop, favoring her right hand over her left, trying not to put pressure on the burn. She pulls open multiple cabinets, looking for the plates. “Top right,” I say.

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