Page 25 of Only Mine
“These need to be cleaned,” he says. “Come inside.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“You’re in charge of my daughter. I need you functional, not infected with whatever’s in those bushes.”
I roll my eyes. “Pretty sure boxwoods aren’t harboring flesh-eating bacteria.”
He releases my wrist and holds the restaurant door open. “Now.”
“You know, most people just offer a Band-Aid and send you on your way,” I say, stepping into the restaurant.
The air shifts into warm, rich scents that make my stomach clench in anticipation. Butter, herbs, sauces simmering, steam billowing, and the regular clatter of pots and pans as the staff moves around.
Saint leads me through the kitchen and past their curious glances. “I’m not most people.”
I follow him into a small office tucked behind the kitchen. “Do you rescue all the women who fall into plants, or am I special?”
His jaw tightens as he pulls a first-aid kit from a cabinet. “I just don’t like blood.”
“You’re a chef. You butcher things.”
“That’s different.” He gestures to a chair. “Sit.”
I perch on the edge, watching as he wets a cloth at a small sink.
He kneels in front of me, taking my arm with the same exactness I’d watched him plate food. His touch is clinical, but the proximity sets my skin buzzing.
“I didn’t realize you had a medical degree along with the culinary one.”
I just can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around this man. I blame it on my nerves. And his insane gorgeousness.
His eyes flick up to mine. “I don’t like smart-asses either.”
“Yet here we are.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips before vanishing. He dabs antiseptic on the scratches, and the resulting sting makes me hiss.
“Hold still.”
“I am. I’m not five.”
“Could’ve fooled me, hiding in bushes.”
His focus returns to my arm, his fingers gently cleaning the lines of red. I watch the dark ink peeking from his rolled sleeve, swirls and lines that hint at stories I don’t know.
“You make a habit of surveillance?” he asks without raising his head.
“Only when people look like they might yell at me for accidentally existing in their line of sight.”
I watch his hands, the controlled movements.
“These aren’t deep,” he murmurs, reaching for a small packet of antibiotic ointment. “But better safe.” He rips it open with his teeth, squeezing a dab onto his finger before carefully applying it to the scratches. His touch is purposeful but so delicate, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“So,” I say, needing to fill the quiet. “C’est Trois. Clever name. The three of you?”
He pauses, his gaze still fixed on my arm. “Something like that.”
Saint reaches for a box of bandages, selecting several small ones. As he moves to apply the first one near my elbow, the sleeve of my T-shirt rides up slightly. His fingers brush the edge of the older, deeper marks hidden beneath, the ones that map my shoulder like angry constellations. His hand stills. His head tilts, a question forming in his eyes as they drift upward.
