Page 36 of More Than a Good Friend

I text him at the end of every date to let him know I’m home safe. But only because he made the request in that grumbly protective way and because he’s super hot when he’s like that. So that’s how he knows that I arrived home late.

“We had fun. But I doubt Evan will message again.”

“Would you go out with him if he did?”

“Yes. I would. Just to give him a fair chance. It’s hard to judge based on one date.” I think back to that awful date when Dag followed in his truck. “Most of the time.” And I’d never go out with the mood-ring dude again. So my statement is only true for some people.

“But you’ve gone out with Evan twice.”

Why is the man keeping track of how many times I go out with these guys? He’s taking the protective thing a bit far.

“I’d still give him another chance.”

He chuckles like he knows what I’m thinking. “You never did tell me what that guy said that first night. When he pulled over to let you out.”

“Because I didn’t want you to chase him down and get yourself arrested.” I laugh, hoping he moves on to a different topic.

“Tell me. I promise to behave.” That protective grumble is back.

So of course, I tell him. “The guy wanted me to wear a French maid costume and clean his house.”

Dag lets loose a hiss, and the knife clatters to the counter.

I whip around and rush over, grabbing a rag as I go. “We need to put pressure on it.”

“It’ll be fine. One little kiss and it’ll be all better.” His brow knits. “That’s not a come on or innuendo or anything. It’s a saying. My mom used to say un besito.”

“I know.”

“But...” He nods toward the cutting board. “It kind of made a mess.”

Those red bell peppers won’t be going into the breakfast casserole. Mainly because they were green when he started chopping. And the talk about kissing is not helpful.

“Don’t worry about it.” I squeeze the rag around his finger, but the white cotton is quickly turning red. “This isn’t good. It won’t stop bleeding.” I slide my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my contacts with one hand.

“I got a bit distracted when you said that about the maid costume. And I didn’t move my finger out of the way when I... you know.”

“Anderson is trained as an EMT, I think.” I tap his name and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hello. What can I do for you, Miss Goldie?”

“Dag’s been cut, and I can’t get the bleeding to stop.” Sandwiching the phone between my shoulder and ear, I pull a handful of paper towels off the roll. I should’ve started with these.

“Where are you? And how badly did you stab him? I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it.”

“It’s his finger. We’re in the mess hall. He was helping me cook.”

“You need to think up a new cover story because no one is going to believe that one. Keep pressure on it. I’ll be there in two minutes. One if I catch a tailwind.” He ends the call.

“Anderson is coming.” I pull the rag away and use the wad of paper towels instead. “I’m so sorry. I never should’ve had you chop stuff or told you what he said.”

He shifts and puts his arm around me. “Not your fault. And it’s probably good I didn’t know what the guy said when we were both standing on the side of the road. What a jerk.” He bumps his hip against mine. “I’d use a different word, but I watch my language when I’m with you.”

Anderson strolls in. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

I step away to grab it, but Dag pulls me back.

He nods toward the fridge. “Up top. You shouldn’t have any trouble reaching it.”

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