Page 22 of Mad About Yule

“Bleeding?”

“A little.”

She pulls a tissue from her jeans pocket and dabs at the skin over my left eyebrow—even that soft touch feels like sandpaper. She moves the tissue away, and a trace of blood stands out against the white. Not too bad, considering everything I’ve seen two-by-fours do.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking about you beingright there. Obviously, I know you were there, I just didn’t think about where…ugh, I should have ended at ‘I wasn’t thinking.’”

With our faces only inches apart, a light, citrusy smell drifts over me as she carries on apologizing. Something that reminds me of sunny summer days. Lemon, maybe, or grapefruit. Delicious.

She might be delicious, but she’s still engaged. Very taken. That reminder splashes cold water on this face to face.

Staring at my head, she bites her lower lip, clearly not liking what she sees. “There’s already a goose egg, and you’ll have a nasty bruise.”

“Right.” I close my eyes against the headache pounding a rhythm in my skull. Cutting through the throb in my forehead, a thin line of fire dances where my skin is broken, aggravated by the cool air.

Not gonna lie, I kind of want a nap. Someplace in the opposite direction from this hard cement floor and this soft Creamsicle who needs to stay far away from two-by-fours.

Hope cups my jaw in both her hands, and my eyes fly open. She stares hard into my face, her nose practically touching mine.

“I think you have a concussion.”

“It’s not a concussion. I played enough ball in school to know.” Not that I had a lot of concussions playing baseball. With her this close, I can’t think about much more than how gentle her fingers feel on my skin, the warmth that surrounds her as I breathe in that citrusy smell. She looks and smells like sunshine, a ray ofhopeon a cloudy day.

I blink a few times. Okay, maybe I do have a concussion. I’m not thinking straight, that’s for sure.

I try to get up, but she holds my face tighter. “Don’t move. I need to check your pupils.”

She peers into my eyes, and stuck as I am, I gaze back. Concern for my potential brain injury creases the center of her forehead, her eyes darting from one eye to the other as she assesses their pupil size. A few freckles dance over the bridge of her nose. Her warm brown eyes probably light up gold in the sun, shot through with amber.

“Your pupils do look kind of big,” she says. “Maybe I should take you to the medical center.”

“Big pupils are normal. I’m fine.” I pull away from her, and she lets her fingers drop from my face. A mistake, really, but one I need to make. This close, she’s making me itchy, and if I don’t get some space I’m going to say—or do—something very, very stupid. “All I need is some ibuprofen and an ice pack.”

The worry line between her eyes deepens. “But I think—”

“Boss. I’m fine.”

She frowns at that, but I’m sure not going to the medical center over this. No part of what happened here isn’t humiliating. I can just imagine what the guys on my old work crew would say if they knew I’d been smacked in the head by a Creamsicle.

“I have some ibuprofen in my purse,” she finally says.

“No ice though?”

The look she tosses my way just might count.

I move to get up, but she puts a hand on my leg, holding me down. The pressure is slight, gentle even, but it sinks through me like she’s riveted me in place. Not sure which is worse—her hands on my face or her hand on my leg. Both leave me spinning.

It could be the knock to the head, but right now I’m thinking it’s Hope.

“I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t stand up yet with a concussion.”

“It’s not a concussion.”

“Maybe we should just pop on over to urgent care and check.” She makes it sound like she suggested a fun day out playing paintball instead of enduring a medical exam.

“Why don’t you go, and I’ll stay right here.”

She finally releases my leg, frowning hard at me. “Fine. I’ll run around the corner to get you a water and some ice. Are you okay to be left alone?”

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