Page 41 of A Thin Line

“It’ll be fine.”

“I insist.”

As he made his way back to the table, his expression changed—from slight amusement to one of a king, indulging a lowly servant. But I refused to take it that way, because I felt like we had found a little common ground through conversation. Maybe he was just arrogant and it came across that way—and with the wealth he obviously commanded, no wonder he was so cocksure of himself.

“Fine. Edna keeps first aid supplies on a shelf in the pantry.”

I found myself smiling. “Be right back.”

The floor was cool on my feet as I walked to the kitchen, now on a mission. When I stepped inside, the overhead lights came on automatically, and I wondered why other lights in the mansion didn’t have this function. As I made my way to the pantry, I questioned why I was doing this man a kindness. After all, this was the same man who’d ripped me away from my home just the night before to subject me to a decade of servitude, not to mention all the history between our families.

But I knew why. It was because I was returning his kindness to me. And, perhaps, I had an ulterior motive of sorts. If I could soothe his outer ache, perhaps he could let go of the anger he felt inside. As I gathered together the supplies I’d need, I realized that maybe we weren’t so different. We both hated each other’s families for something that had happened in the past—and, technically, it was a beef between our fathers. Just because he sided with his father and I with mine didn’t mean we couldn’t find a way to get along. And, as much as I hated to admit it, letting me repay the debt by working here rather than going to prison for possibly far longer could also be viewed as a kindness.

Soon I was loaded up with supplies, heading back to take care of Sinclair. Like when I’d found him earlier, he seemed deep in thought as he all but examined the wall from his seat at the table.

As I began setting down items, he said, “You look like you’re preparing to perform surgery.”

“No. No gloves or scalpel.”

“I’m grateful for that.” His tone seemed to shift as I poured hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball. “Wait a minute. How do I know this isn’t just another ruse? Can I trust you to not put chemicals in my eyes?”

I should have felt angry after thinking we’d finally made progress—but, instead, I was hurt and it probably showed on my face. “What? I would never do something like that. I’m trying to return the favor. You didn’t beat me up on the sidewalk tonight. You saved me…so I’d like to try to mitigate the damage I caused you.”

His blue eyes softened then, the slight creases in his forehead smoothing out as well. “All right. I’m going to…trust you.”

“You still might want to close your eyes. I don’t know if there will be fumes that will irritate them—and it would be safer just in case it splashed or anything.”

Although his face again registered suspicion, he closed his eye above the scratches, keeping the other open. Gently, I dabbed at the scratches on his cheek. Now that I was closer, the air between us seemed to shift. I could smell his cologne and the hint of bourbon on his breath…but I could also feel his body heat.

And something that felt like electricity.

Where was that coming from?

Ignoring it, I continued gingerly dabbing at the diagonal scratches on his cheek, wondering if it was the huge lumpy ring on the guy’s hand or his fingernails that had cut into Sinclair’s skin. The lower of the two scratches was in his beard area where tiny prickles of stubble were making an appearance.

Why did I feel like that made him even more handsome?

As I pushed back the weird emotions rising in my chest, I asked, “Does that feel okay?”

“It’s fine.”

Setting the cotton ball on a coaster on the table, I picked up the tube of antibiotic ointment, squeezing a tiny amount of the gel on my finger. As I dabbed it onto the cuts, I said, “Make sure you don’t rub this in your eye or anything. Um, do you want me to put a Band-Aid on it?”

As he laughed gently, I felt his eyes—both of them—searching my face. This close, I refused to make eye contact. Things had suddenly grown weird and I didn’t want to fuel that fire.

“No. No Band-Aids.” I wiped my fingers on the used cotton ball and screwed the lid on the ointment, sitting back to put a little distance between us before I looked at him.

“Well, it probably still hurts but now at least it’s clean.” Quickly, I picked everything up and headed back to the kitchen. After putting the peroxide and ointment away, I began heading back to the other room…and paused. My hunger returned—but, suddenly, after feeling like maybe we were trying to build a bridge, I didn’t want to sneak food without permission.

What was going on in my head?

I returned to the table next to Sinclair, deciding to simply ask. “Can I get a little something to eat before I go to bed?”

His eyes seemed to flare then but remained calm. “I promise to work on not yelling or…losing my shit. But the bottom line is that you had a chance to eat and you refused. You can eat as much as you like at breakfast.”

I too felt a surge of anger—but if he could keep himself under control, so could I. “Very well.” But our little friendly chat was now over. “I’ll head to bed then. Where should I put my glass?”

“Leave it here. Edna will take care of it in the morning.”

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