Page 9 of Hit the Ground
My pulse took flight. “No. I’m fine. I can take care of it.”
“I know you can,” he said gently. “Thing is…I’m feeling all kinds of guilty for not stepping in the moment Bart put his hands on you. For me to sleep well tonight, you’re going to have to let me fix you up and make sure you’re okay.”
I pulled in a shuddering breath and almost smiled. “That was pretty manipulative.”
“It’s the truth.” The corner of his mouth quirked a little bit. “Did it work?”
“Yes. I guess it did.”
He followed me into the back, and I let him. If I’d said no and meant it, I was certain he would have taken that as my answer. That was who he was. But he was also a man who needed to make sure I was all right, so I let him have it.
I let myself have it too.
It had been a rough, strange day. Giving myself these minutes of good wasn’t the wisest move, but I wanted it more than almost anything. For once, I wasn’t going to deny myself.
My palm stung as Caleb held it under cold water in Joy’s bathroom sink. I looked up at the mirror, watching him with reckless abandon. Brow furrowed, he concentrated on cleaning my wound, his mouth flat in a line of displeasure.
“Hurt?” he rumbled.
“It’s not so bad.”
My reply was so unmistakably breathless, his eyes darted up to find mine in the mirror. I’d been caught, and this time, I did not look away.
“Sorry,” he gruffed. “Won’t take much longer.”
“I’m not in a rush.”
He turned off the tap and reached for a paper towel. First he turned me to face him, then carefully, gently, he dabbed at my skin, inspecting the gash.
“I don’t think it needs stitches,” he murmured. “But you’re gonna be sore.”
“I don’t even feel it.”
His eyes cut to mine. “You will tomorrow. You need to take it easy, or you’ll open it back up.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t. I stared at him as he tended to me, taking him in from a proximity I’d never experienced.
There was a tiny cut above his knuckle, a scar at the edge of his brow, a worry line between his eyes. He was so big, he barely fit in this narrow bathroom. The space felt smaller and smaller the longer we stood in it together.
He wrapped gauze around my hand and secured it with tape. My fingers twitched when his thumb grazed my skin, and our gazes collided again.
“This feel okay?” he asked.
It felt great—like a slice of heaven.
But it also hurt. My hand was in his, but he wasn’t holding it. He was being a good Samaritan to the little waitress who servedhim a couple times a week. This wasn’t about me. He didn’t seeme. Just a woman who’d needed rescuing.
Suddenly, I was so very tired of not being seen; I couldn’t stand it for another second.
Maybe I’d lost more blood than I’d thought. Instead of cowering or scurrying, I stepped closer. His brows lifted—just a little—but he didn’t move back.
He said my name softly. “Alice…”
And I yanked him down.
Grabbed the collar of his flannel and pulled him low enough to reach me.
He bent automatically—because he was polite, because he was Caleb, and I kissed him.
