Page 9 of Being Bold
Pulling the blanket from the top of the couch, he covered the woman with it, tucking it around and underneath her sides and feet. When she still didn’t stir, he had the urge to ensure she was breathing, but glancing at her chest, he could see it softly rising and falling beneath the covers.
Satisfied, he shuffled the few feet to the corner fireplace. Kneeling on the stone surround, he grabbed a couple of logs from the stack he’d piled this morning and added them to the grate. After he stuffed some kindling between them, Bo lit a match and touched it to the pile. The logs ignited. As he watched the flames build, he thought of another fire and glanced at his leg.
The sweatpants covering the mottled skin didn’t stop him from thinking about how he got those scars. He had a love-hate relationship with fire. Being close to it made him uncomfortable. His left leg would twitch, and sometimes his stomach rolled with nausea. A flicker out of the corner of his eye pulled his attention away from the hearth.
What Bo saw forced him backward. He fell on his ass with a thump, his throat squeezing as he choked out, “Nugg.”
His dead teammate leaned against the back of the couch. Tilting his head toward the woman, he asked, “What’s your take on her? Whoever shot at her’s going to want to finish the job.”
Bo swallowed. He knew his friend was only a hallucination, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with. The first time it happened was a few weeks after the bombing. He’d thought Nugg had been a dream, but then he kept seeing him. For months. It was another reason he knew he had to leave the teams. How could he be a SEAL if he’d lost his fucking mind?
He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Nugg, though. At least a year. He’d been doing better with TOP and having missions to focus on. Every person they saved and every Tango they took out helped him rebalance the scales. Not that he’d ever make up for not stopping the bombing, but at least it was something. Something to keep him going. Like helping the woman passed out on his couch.
He didn’t answer Nugg, knowing the sooner he ignored the hallucination, the sooner it would disappear. Instead, he glanced at the woman. She remained unconscious.
“Her temperature’s still too low.”
Bo glowered at Nugg’s comment, but then he thought of something.
Hot packs!
Remembering the heated compresses in the first aid kit, he trudged to the bathroom, glaring at the glass he had yet to clean up on his kitchen floor. Opening the door, he switched on the light. The enclosed bathroom was wide enough for a corner vanity along the exterior wall, along with the toilet and a shower tall enough for Bo not to have to duck under the spray. Across from the vanity, a little alcove held shelving for linens above a combination washer-dryer.
I’ve got to remember to put her clothes in there.
Planning to do that after he cleaned her head wound, he crouched and opened the corner cabinet to retrieve the first aid kit. When he stood back up, he snagged a washcloth and ran water over it. Cleaning the wound would probably hurt and wake her up. At least, he hoped she would wake up soon. If not, he might have to rethink that hospital trip.
Carrying the red bag of supplies and the cloth, he returned to the living room. Nugg had disappeared. With a huff of relief, Bo set everything down on the coffee table. It was a solid block of wood with a live edge, giving it a unique shape. He’d cut it himself from a fallen tree on his property. Which is why he knew it was sturdy enough to hold his weight.
Sitting on the table’s edge, he opened the first aid kit and took out what he needed. Then he pushed the hood out of the way and tipped the woman’s face so that he could get to the graze.
A soft whimper escaped her lips as he cleaned the wound, but her eyes didn’t open. When he dabbed antiseptic over the abrasion, her eyelids fluttered, and she jerked away from his touch. “Yumi. I have to . . .”
“It’s okay. You’re safe.” Bo reacted, stopping her from rolling off the couch, but she was out again before he even had a chance to wonder what color her eyes were. With a sigh, he settled her back against the cushions.
Her voice had held a faint hint of an accent, but he couldn’t place it. Wondering about it, he finished dressing her head wound.
Where is she from? And who’s Yumi?
He hoped whoever the woman was worried about wasn’t outside in this weather. If they were . . . he didn’t want to think about that. Not when there was nothing he could do about it without more information. Especially when she didn’t seem able to give him any.
Pulling the hood back over her head, he tucked her hair across her ears, trapping body heat wherever possible. The strands felt soft like the smoothest fabric. Satin or silk, maybe? He didn’t go in for anything fancier than flannel or denim, so he was hardly an expert on that sort of thing. He leaned back and noticed her lips seemed to be returning to a more normal color, no longer tinted with cold. Her bottom one was big and full, tinged pink in the center. Though thinner, her top lip curved in a perfect bow shape.
He forced himself to stop staring at her mouth and grabbed the first aid kit. It had two hot packs inside. Figuring she needed them both, he activated the packets with his palms, then tucked one in the hoodie pocket and the other under her back. With her as warm as he could make her without—
When his thoughts turned x-rated, he shoved to his feet. The whiskey must’ve gone to his head because there was something fucked up about fantasizing over an unconscious woman. Giving himself a mental dressing down, he cleaned everything off the coffee table, then scooped up her clothes on his way to the bathroom.
He could admit it’d been too long since he’d been with a woman. Close to a year, actually. But that didn’t give him the right to wonder what this one would taste like or how those curves he’d seen would feel moving underneath him. When his dick woke from its long slumber, he forced himself to put those thoughts out of his mind.
You’re seriously fucked up.
He shoved her sweat-and-snow-soaked clothes into the washing machine with more force than necessary. Being a SEAL made relationships difficult, so he hadn’t even tried. Since he’d been with Tactical Operations & Protection, he’d stuck to one-night stands with women he’d picked up at bars. A night of mutual release, nothing more. He couldn’t even call it pleasure.Not when he barely remembered what that felt like. And relationships? Those were for people who deserved them.
Bo scrubbed his hands through his short beard as if he could scrub the past away, then turned the washer on. Next problem to tackle? The kitchen floor. With another glance toward the living room, he pulled a short broom and dustpan from one of the kitchen cabinets and swept up the pieces of glass he could see. Despite keeping his hands busy, his mind returned to the woman passed out on his couch.
What the hell am I going to do with her?
Chapter 4
