Page 6 of The Last Love Song
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard? I’ve officially lost all my good sense. I sold off my share of Last Chance Vintage to go pursue a singing career.” She shoved her hair aside and winced in the middle of the movement as if something hurt.
“Are you okay?” He reached to steady her, his focus quickly shifting. “Did you hit your head when you went off the road? Maybe you should sit down.”
Already he was opening up the passenger door of her car with one hand, while keeping the other on her elbow. What other injuries hadn’t he noticed while he was thinking about how to keep her in town?
The interior light of her vehicle came on, spilling onto her back, but the front of her remained in shadow.
“I’m fine,” she protested. “I didn’t—that is, maybe I bent my wrist funny. But I definitely didn’t hit my head.”
“You sure? Sometimes when you hit your head you black out and don’t remember it.”
Frowning, she shook her head, although she did allow him to maneuver her into the passenger seat. “No. I remember it clearly.”
“Then how did you hurt your wrist?” He leaned closer to get a better angle on her face. “May I?”
Without waiting for permission, he smoothed a hand over her scalp, checking for bumps. Her pupils were dilated, but not in an unusual way. When he tipped her chin higher, however, she edged back in the seat.
“You have to admit this is an unorthodox way to cop a feel.” Her voice was breathless.
“If I were going to cop a feel, don’t you think I’d start somewhere more memorable?” Gently, he thumbed a dark patch on her cheek, but it smudged at his touch. Not a bruise. “You’ve got some grease or something here.”
“Okay. Stop.” Straightening, she gripped his wrist and lowered his hand. “I’m fine. I merely didn’t have a good plan for this adventure of mine.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.” He crouched in front of her, staying still for a minute, enjoying the feel of her fingers on his skin. “How about your wrist? Can I see?”
“You know, you’re not a doctor.” Relinquishing her hold on him, she tucked her hands under her arms.
Wincing.
“But Iamthe mayor.” He reached for her right wrist and cradled it in his palm, inspecting it. “That gives me considerable authority in this town.”
“To call a council meeting maybe,” she scoffed, but she let him move her fingers around, checking her mobility.
“Although if at any time martial law is declared, I think I’d be declared king or something.” The wrist seemed a little swollen in comparison to the other one, but her range of motion didn’t suggest a break.
“Really?” She laughed, finally giving him the smile he’d been looking for earlier. “Is that how they conned you into taking the job—the promise of absolute power?”
“Something like that.” He didn’t want to stop touching her, especially when she smiled at him that way.
She smelled good, like hothouse flowers in spring, enticing him to lean closer. His forearms brushed against her thighs as he kept her wrists in his hand.
Their eyes met in the dim reflection of the dome light. The throb of her pulse spiked against his thumb for one heated moment. Then her smile faded.
“I’d better check up on the tow truck.” She licked her lower lip. “I thought it would be here by now.”
He didn’t want to let her go.
“Your wrist is swollen.” He smoothed over the inflamed spot. “You could have sprained it.”
“No.” She broke out of his grasp, ending the moment. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I need to go.”
Reluctantly, he rose to his feet, giving her space while she called the towing service again. When she disconnected, he watched her gather her things from inside the car and stuff her phone in her bag.
“So, Heather, you want me to take you home? Or set a course for North Carolina?”
“If you don’t mind giving me a ride, I would settle for home.” Keys in hand, she backed out of the car.
On instinct, he reached out to steady her again since the road’s shoulder dropped off hard. His fingers grazed a bare patch of her waist, his palm landing on her hip. The feel of her teased along his senses like a fuel-injected aphrodisiac.
