“Hold still,” I murmur, dabbing at a scrape on her elbow.
She hisses softly, then exhales. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Not your fault your cat dragged you up a tree.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but can’t quite manage it. Silence stretches, the hum of the truck filling the space.
And then she says, voice low, “About this morning… I’m sorry.”
I glance up. Her eyes flick away, fixed on her hands in her lap.
“Sorry?” I echo.
She nods, twisting her fingers together. “I saw you at the bakery. I ignored you. I just—” She exhales, frustrated. “I was embarrassed.”
My chest tightens. “Embarrassed about what?”
Her gaze flicks to mine, then away again. “Everything. What happened. The heat. That I couldn’t even look you in the eye after…”
“After we spent three days in bed?” I finish gently.
Her cheeks flame.
I set the wipe aside, leaning back against the bench opposite her, my gaze steady. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Wren. Not with me. Not with any of us.”
She swallows, her throat bobbing, and for a second, the air between us hums with everything unsaid. The taste of her still lingers on my tongue, and sitting this close, cleaning her scrapes like some professional, is almost unbearable.
I force myself to focus, taping gauze over the last scrape. “There. Good as new.”
Her lips part like she wants to speak, but Jamila’s voice cuts in from the cab. “We’re here.”
The rig slows, pulling into the small clinic lot, and I push down every instinct to keep her close.
Because if I don’t, I’ll forget where we are. Forget the line I’m supposed to hold.
And right now, she’s already close enough to undo me with just a whisper.
Her fingers toy with the hem of her dress like she doesn’t know what else to do with them, and when she finally whispers, “Thank you again,” it hits me right in the chest.
I should leave it at that. I should nod and play it off casually.
But I don’t.
My hand moves on its own, rough palm cupping her cheek. Her skin is warm, softer than it has any right to be after climbing a damn tree, and I feel her lean into it just the tiniest bit.
“Wren,” I murmur, my voice gone low. “You can call me for anything. Doesn’t matter what it is—cat in a tree, busted lightbulb, you name it. If you need me, you call.”
Her breath catches. I see her lashes flutter, her gaze flicking down to my mouth. Every muscle in me coils tight. The air between us turns electric.
If I leaned forward just an inch, I’d have her lips under mine. If I let instinct take the wheel, I’d have her pressed against the bench, tasting her all over again, this time not because of her heat cycle but because shewants it.
Her lips part. I swear she’s about to?—
The clinic door swings open.
We jolt apart like guilty teenagers. A nurse leans in, smiling too brightly, oblivious. “We’ve got a room ready for you.”
Wren clears her throat, her voice small but steady. “See you around, Beau.”
