Page 16 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“I get that, but there are anti-inflammatories in themedication. Mary said that’s important for at least the first twenty-four hours.”
“Fine.” My shoulders slump. “Guess I can’t argue with Hairy.”
At this, Sara’s lip twitches. “I’m also supposed to check your stitches and reapply your antibiotic ointment. So I’ll just be in the kitchen when you’re—when you—” She swallows, her eyes dipping to my bare torso again—“get dressed.” She spins on a heel, fleeing across the house, but not before I notice her throat’s still blotchy.
I shut the bathroom door, and without waiting for permission, I peel off the gauzy bandage and tape. The last thing I need is Sara touching me more than absolutely necessary. She’d probably be all gentle and soft and good-smelling. So she’s not getting anywhere near my head if I can help it.
Luckily my forehead’s just bulging and bruised, and the stitches are tender but there’s no evidence of fresh blood. Not too bad, all things considered. Using the towel, I rake at my hair—damp with sweat—until the auburn strands are spiked up. I could use a fresh trim sometime soon. Right now, though, I just need to get dressed so I can handle my own re-bandaging and medication.
Inside the duffle bag on top of a pile of clothes, I find a pair of gray joggers, a soft white T-shirt, and my favorite hoodie.
Bless you, Ford Lansing.
I’ve been told the sky-blue fabric of the sweatshirt really brings out the color of my eyes. But I bury that thought as soon as it pops up. Impressing Sara Hathaway—with my eyes or abs or anything else—isnoton my agenda.
Still, she is the one controlling the meds and supplies for my stitches. So once I’m fully dressed, I head off to find her in the kitchen. She’s wiping the walls around the oven, her black hair piled in a loose knot on top of her head. A few stray tendrils drape down over the nape of her neck, and my gut twists.
I remember my lips pressed there, the taste of her skin like a ghost from ten years ago. But I’m not about to start drooling overthe woman like some kind of lovesick creeper. Becauseof courseI’m not lovesick. Or a creeper. I’m just some guy who’s stuck with his ex for the next few days due to circumstances beyond his control.
Still, watching her now reminds me of her work ethic and determination. Even when we were young, she had such big dreams. She made me want to discover whoIwas. Losing Sara was the first step toward finding myself. Now I can’t help being drawn to the idea of testing out what I’ve learned.
“Hi.”
“Oh!” She startles and twirls around. The dirty rag drops from her hand.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” I duck my head in the most nonthreatening way I can muster. “I kinda thought you were expecting me.”
“I was. I mean, I’m not scared. I was just … really focused on cleaning.” She stoops to pick up the rag, and when she stands again, she barely makes eye contact with me.
“Need any help?”
“No.” Her mouth goes crooked, and she finally meets my gaze. “Or maybe I should say, ‘nope thanks.’”
“Hey.” I force out a laugh. “You’re mocking a guy with a concussion.”
“Still too soon?”
“Forevertoo soon,” I say.
“Fair enough.” She takes a moment to examine my head. “You took off the bandage yourself.”
“Yep.” I turn so she can see the back of my skull.
“Looks … not so bad. I just need to put some fresh —”
“I can do it,” I interrupt.
“But—”
“I’ll be fine before the next dose of pain meds gets me all loopy again.”
Sara narrows her eyes, but ultimately she fishes around in Mary’s bag of supplies for the tube of ointmentand a clean bandage. Then she monitors me closely while I wash my hands, dab on a layer of antibiotics, and affix the new bandage.
“See?” I splay my hands when I’m done. “Perfectly capable.”
She presses her lips together. “At least let me get you something to eat. I’ve got some chicken soup I can heat up.”
“What?” I arch a brow. “No brownies?”
