After setting down the cleaning wipe, I approach my patient and am hit with that same woodsy scent I recall from last year. Those warm, cozy notes remind me of moonlit sled rides, dancing snowflakes, and two carefree souls. This … this is a result of my biology. The olfactory nerve—the one responsible for the sense of smell—has a direct pathway to the emotional and memory parts of the brain. Which is why certain scents trigger visceral memories more than any of the other senses. So my reaction is purely scientific, not emotional.
He looks at me, expectantly.
“I … uh … should check the rest of your head to be sure there aren’t any knots.”
“Sure.” Still holding the towels to his forehead, he dips his chin to his chest, and I tentatively run my hands through his hair. My fingertips tingle as I sift through the silky strands while dozens of questions filter through my brain. How is this happening? Why do men get beautiful, wavy hair and long lashes? Speaking of hair, how many women have tousled these locks?Stay clinical here.I straighten my spine and finish myexamination. Once I’m certain of no more bumps or scrapes, I force myself to step back.
My purpose is to get this man patched up and out of my store. I snatch the cleansing wipe from the counter and clear the area of the cut. “The gash isn’t deep,” I say as I apply a butterfly bandage. Now to clean the rest of his face. A few scrapes stretch across his upper cheekbone but thankfully aren’t bleeding.
Leo’s gaze wanders to something behind me. “Is that a vault?”
“It is.” I grab more cleansing packets. “This building used to be Silver Creek’s first bank. Hence our name.” I open the packaging and remove the pads.
“Does the vault close?”
“It used to. But when I was little, I accidentally got trapped inside. Gran immediately had it welded open.”
“I bet that was terrifying.”
I shrug. “I don’t remember being scared. Somehow I knew Gran would find me.” Gran and I had a special bond. If she was near, I knew everything would be okay. Perhaps that’s why I struggled so much after her passing. I’d never known a time without her, never been solely on my own. I shake off the pressing sadness and ease closer to Leo. “Just going to clean off the excess blood and dirt.”
I stand in the opening between his knees, awareness of our close proximity burning through me. I hate the quiver in my fingers as I cup his chin and tilt his head up. The stubble on his jaw grazes the soft flesh of my palm. Breath shaky, I gently swipe his upper cheekbone, sliding the pad downward. I fold the pad, searching for a clean spot.
I slide my thumb under his chin again and tentatively place my other hand on his large shoulder to steady myself. Maybe it’s the antiseptic making me woozy. Let’s go with that. Because it’s easier to blame the pungent cleansing agent for this currentwave of headiness than to acknowledge it might be a visceral reaction to touching Leo. Never mind my feeling the coiled strength of his solid form beneath my fingertips. Or the way my body has been brushing his inner thigh. This interaction feels too personal, too intimate, and the quicker it’s done, the sooner my heart rate can return to a non-alarming level. I dip closer and scrub at the crusted blood at the edge of his mouth. The side of my thumb brushes over his lush lower lip. I don’t realize how near my face is to his until he turns and our noses brush. I jolt back, nearly bumping a display of vintage frames.
Clinical. I can be clinical.
Pulse pounding, I return to the task at hand and spot tiny pebbles embedded in his skin. “You, uh, have Main Street stuck in your face.”
“I don’t even feel it.” His gaze clamps mine, and a bolt of warmth surges through me.
Needing a second, I angle away and grab another cleansing swab. With a gentle swipe, I clear away the last of the offending stones. “Do you want to keep Mitzy’s lip print as a souvenir?”
He snorts. “I’m good.”
I wipe the bright pink hue from his right cheek and step back. “All done.”
“How’s it look?”
Stupidly beautiful. I know, I know. He’s talking specifics, the cut, and not generalities, his face, but I’m not too proud to admit Leo’s features are attractively arranged. “I think you’ll live.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“But, hmm.” I inch closer and study his forehead. “It hasn’t entirely stopped bleeding.”
“Head wounds do that.”
“I realize this.” I grab a few more butterfly bandages and press them into his palm. “These should help. But if the bleeding doesn’t quit, you might need stitches.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Do you want any aspirin?”
“No, I’m really okay.”
I crumple the wrappers, and he places his hand atop mine. “Thank you, Greta,” he says in the same reverent tone he’d used last year after sledding. His gaze melts into mine with an intensity that cinches my chest.
“No problem.” My voice is shaky, and I hate it. “Just glad you didn’t die saving Frieda the Fake.”
