“They’re just grazes.” She continued walking, and it was utterly ridiculous. She looked like some ludicrous cross between a flamingo and a kangaroo, balancing and hopping and kind of dragging too.
“I take it you didn’t manage to get all the thorns out either?” He pointed at her tiny feet as they shuffled strangely across the parking lot.
“Some were too fiddly, and I couldn’t reach a few of them. But don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll come out on their own.”
“Thorns don’t just come out on their own!” He huffed loudly and turned to open his car. He could hear the little, pathetic foot sounds on the paving and he couldn’t take it a second longer. He opened the back door and pointed at the seat. “Get into the back seat! Now.”
“What?” She stopped shuffling and stared at the back seat. She looked panicked.
“Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not trying to get you into the back seat for sex or something like that!” he said matter-of-factly.
Her head whipped around, her jaw slackened and her golden-colored eyes were as wide as saucers. “Then what?” she asked.
He shook his head. He hated explaining himself. Especially to employees. And he usually didn’t have to. People never questioned him. Except her.
“Just get in.” He pointed at the seat and then walked around to the passenger side of the car. He kept a very extensive medical kit in the cubbyhole. When his sister had been ill, she’d scraped her leg once when they’d been out. Her body had been so run-down that a bad infection had set in quickly. Had he had something on hand to disinfect the cut right there and then, perhaps it wouldn’t have gotten so bad so quickly. After that, he’d always made sure to travel with a fully stocked medical kit for any kind of emergency—he just never thought it would be this kind of emergency.
He grabbed the kit and walked back to her. She’d climbed into the back seat and her legs were hanging out the side of the car. She looked up at him anxiously, and for some reason, he found the look to be both irritating and endearing. The look of shock that had washed over her face when he’d said the word “sex” had amused him. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex, let alone thought about it. Sex was always so messy, and not just physically. When emotions were involved, things seemed to get messy and ugly, quickly. He liked things in his life to be neat and ordered. He’d had a brief encounter with some nameless woman at a conference a year ago, but it had been highly unsatisfying and had only momentarily (partially) scratched an itch. But since then . . . nothing. He hadn’t missed it either. He was far too busy to worry about something as trivial as sex.
“Sit back and stretch your legs out on the seat.” He waved his arm at her.
“Sorry, what?” She looked at him and blinked like a deer in the headlights.
“Well, those knees aren’t going to disinfect themselves, are they?” He gestured for her to move. Slowly and tentatively she moved back, stretching her legs out as she went. He unzipped the medical bag and pulled out the tube of cream he was looking for. He took the lid off and squeezed some out onto a cotton wool bud. He was just about to put it on her knees when he stopped. Her skirt had crept up her thighs and she was clearly unaware that, at this angle, he could see all the way up it to her pretty pink panties. His breath hitched in his throat and he looked away quickly. But it was too late. Because suddenly, just like that, after all this time, he was thinking about sex . . .
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Poppy
Something in the air changed. Something strange and inexplicable was happening, and I wasn’t entirely sure what the hell it was. He stared at my knees with the most focused, intense look on his face, as if they were all he could see. As if he was too afraid to look anywhere else but there. His previously blue eyes were dark, or maybe it was just the light? His jaw clenched, and his entire body tensed. My stomach tightened and a warm shiver ran through me.What was going on?
I swallowed hard, as if something was stuck in my throat, and looked down at his hand. He was holding a cotton wool bud in his fingers and it was hovering just above my knee. I had a sudden image of him dropping it and bringing his hand down on my knee. Clasping my knee in his big hand and then running it up my thigh, digging his fingers into my flesh and running it higher, and higher and . . .
God, I felt like such a perv right now. But truthfully, I was as sexually frustrated as hell. I hadn’t had sex in ages—not since my last boyfriend anyway. And he certainly hadn’t been much to write anywhere about. I wasn’t exactly lucky in love, or lust, for that matter. I had this uncanny ability to attract total, idiotic losers who never seemed to be any good in the sack, or anywhere else. Sometimes I thought I was doomed to a life of mediocre sex with men who earned less money than I did—and that was saying a lot.
But the hand didn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, the sudden sting of fiery disinfectant coming into contact with the broken skin of my knee made me wince.
“Ow!” I tensed up as the sting intensified.
“Keep still or it will hurt more,” the stern voice fired back at me, and any semblance of lust I’d been feeling a few seconds ago was gone. I tried to keep as still as possible as he dabbed cream on my knees and then stuck two massive Band-Aids over them.
“Take off your shoes!” he suddenly commanded in a tone that made me shiver.
“Why?”
“The thorns in your foot. Or would you like to leave them in and see if they get gangrenous?”
“Uh . . . you’re not going to . . .? Um . . .” I watched in horror as he pulled out a needle and a pair of tweezers from the bag.
“I’m going to try,” he said, waving his free hand at my shoes once more. “If you’ll take off your shoes so we can get this over and done with. I’d like to get home before the sun comes up. Wouldn’t you?”
“It’s okay.” I pulled my feet towards myself. “You don’t have to do it. It’s fine.”
He glared at me for a moment or two as if he was irritated, and then his face seemed to soften slightly. “Here. Take this.” He put the tweezers and needle back into the bag and passed it to me. “Maybe you could get someone to assist you with that?” The tone of his voice made his question seemed very loaded. “Maybe someone you live with?” he asked.
“Live with?” I took the bag from him.
“It’s a very simple question, Miss Granger, you either do, or do not have someone at home who can help you get the thorns out of your foot?”
