Page 24 of Sparks Fly
“Don’t say sorry, it wasn’t your fault.” His lips crease into a soft smile before he is back picking the glass up.
My fingers wrap around the edge of the worktop when he grumbles.
“You’re hurt.” His eyes are back on mine as he furrows his brows.
“It’s fine.” I wave it off, but his fingers are curled around my ankle as he lifts it up to get a better look.
“I’m going to get a dust-pan and brush,” he whispers as he delicately places my foot down.
I go to argue but decide against it, keeping my mouth shut. He continues to clean and then taps me on my ankle.
“Sit on the counter,” he asks, his voice tight.
I nod. Placing my hands behind me, I jump onto the side, legs dangling as he stands and walks out of the room. Dragging air into my lungs, I let out a slow and steady breath, as I try and calm my breathing.
He is back with the dustpan and brush and crouches in front of me as he cleans up the remainder of the glass. I stay silent. I am too scared to talk.
He gives the floor one last sweep and then he is back on his feet, discarding the glass into the bin.
I go to hop down, but he catches me and shakes his head from side to side.
“Let me go and get the first aid kit. You could do with a plaster.”
Opening my mouth, I close it quickly and roll my lips together. I hear my phone ringing from my bedroom—sorry, Creed’s bedroom—and I glance over my shoulder and listen to it ring off.
Frustration bites at my insides and I roll my eyes when I see him walking back in with the small medical bag.
“It really doesn’t warrant any of this.” My tone is sharp, and his shoulders lift and fall a little heavier than normal.
“Just let me do it.” His eyes flick to mine and I see the annoyance that flurries through them.
I bite the inside of my lip, he places the first aid box on the work surface next to me and unclips it, rooting through for wipes and a plaster.
“You’re being very over the top,” I say with a smirk
“I marked your skin,” he grunts
“You didn’t. The glass did. ThatIdropped.” I side eye him and he shakes his head
“That I made you drop, so it’s on me.”
“Cree…” I pause “Mr Lexington, honestly.”
“Be quiet, Anaïs.” At first, I am taken aback by his quip, but I watch a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And it’s Creed.”
I nod.
He reaches for my ankle and lifts it to his chest as he inspects the minuscule scratch. I can’t help but let out a soft giggle.
His eyes lift, brows furrowed as he searches my face. “What?”
I roll my lips tight. “Nothing,” I say quietly.
He narrows his gaze on me before peeling the cleaning wipe from its packet. Then, he swipes it over the graze, and I find myself wincing as it stings. Concern flashes across his face and I bear a wide grin.
“Sorry,” he says softly before discarding the wipe back in its packet then peeling back the plaster and placing it over the scratch.
“There.” He dusts his hands off and gives me a weak smile.
