To find broad-shouldered Brand on the porch, glowering at me, with a bag of food from the diner and a drink carrier of insulated coffee cups.
"Why is your finger in your mouth?"
The strange question knocks me out of the reverie that landed over me when I saw him standing there.
"Hurt it on a piece of brass." My hand drops to my side, curling into a fist so he can't see the blood.
"So your first thought was to stick it into your mouth? That's not sanitary."
I shrug, telling him the honest truth. "It was aching. Sucking on it makes it ache less."
He goes tense, hazel eyes going darker, and it's only then that I realize what I've said. How it might actually sound outside my head.
"Why are you on my porch?" I need to deflect the attention from the unintentional innuendo to something much safer. "And why do you have food?"
He grunts and lifts the drinks in what is probably meant to be a gesture of nonchalance. "Thought I'd be nice and bring you breakfast."
"You want to be nice to me?" I stare at him in disbelief.
Brand sighs, those big shoulders moving in a way that's very distracting. "We need to talk, Lydia."
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. "Why now?"
"Because it's important." He looks toward the street, like he expects someone's spying on us, and honestly, in this town, someone probably is. "Can I come in?"
I make him wait a few more seconds, then nod and step back to allow him access. He brushes by me, heat pouring from his large frame, and I follow his woodsy scent into the kitchen.
"You've been here before," I say, not missing the sure way he navigated the old house.
"Corbin and I spent some time together." He sets the food and drinks down on the table, then crosses to the sink. "Come here."
My feet follow his orders easily and when I'm beside him, he reaches out for my injured hand. I let him take it and he turns on the tap, running it under the water as it grows warmer. He washes away the smears of blood, carefully cleaning it off until he can examine the cut. His jaw is tight when he wraps it in a fresh paper towel.
"Hold this tight." He grates out the words, voice low and gravelly. Then he makes his way to the cabinet, two doors left of the sink, and pulls out the first aid kit. Like he knew exactly where it would be. "You do this kind of thing often?"
He asks like he actually expects me to answer. Like he wants to know.
"Make myself bleed on an antique piece of brass? Not really."
He grunts, and it sounds suspiciously like an almost laugh. He opens the kit, takes out the bandages and a tube of antibiotic ointment. Gesturing for me to sit down at the table, he pulls a chair out, then sits in the one beside me, pulling it close so he can bandage me up.
"It's not that big a deal, Brand," I say, but he shakes his head. His dark, wavy hair drops onto his forehead with the movement, and I feel the strangest urge to push it away for him. He gently peels the paper towel free and applies the cool gel to the cut. His sure fingers make quick work of ripping open a bandage and he wraps it tight, securing it in place with a heavy press.
"You hurting yourself is a big deal, Lydia. Your dad wouldn't be happy if he knew this happened because you were going through his old stuff."
"Well, he's not here. And somebody has to do it."
He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. The move just emphasizes everything about him. Makes the fabric of his shirt stretch tight, makes me notice the flecks of red in his beard as the sun lances in through the window. And it also makes me acutely aware of how close we are right now.
Brand looks like he's going to say something, then shakes his head and pulls the drinks closer. He frees one insulated cup, setting it in front of me, and then takes his own. I chance a sip of the drink and close my eyes as the delicious brew lands on my tongue. Exactly the way I like it.
The scent of cinnamon hits me and when I look down at the table, a fresh, hot cinnamon roll is in front of me, alongside eggs and bacon. Brand has the same food in front of him and I appreciate the thoughtfulness even as I wonder at it.
"Eat something, then we'll talk." Brand's deep voice still sounds gruff, but at least he sounds less grumpy.
"How did you know the way I like my coffee?"
He looks at me, eyebrow arched, and I take a dutiful bite of scrambled eggs with the plastic fork he brought along. He nods in approval, swallowing his own mouthful, then gives a surprising confession. "Johnny at the diner doctored it up when I told him I was bringing it to you."
