“Then I’m boxed in here, baby.”
“You have no idea how much I like hearing that.”
His eyes burn.
I put the coffee down.
He looks at my hand then, and his expression changes. I followed my own nerves and picked at the edge of the bandage until a spot of red has bloomed near my palm. Tiny. Stupid. Enough for him to take one step before he stops himself.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had quite a week.”
“Let me clean it.”
“No.”
He nods once.
Accepts it.
Turns toward the counter.
That is what makes me speak.
“Wait.”
He freezes.
I hate how obedient he is being. It is doing things to me that a woman with sense would not allow.
“I said no too fast,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches. “That a yes?”
“It’s a maybe with conditions.”
“I love conditions.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
I walk to the sofa, sit, and hold out my hand like I’m granting a favor to a man on death row.
He comes over with the first-aid kit I left on the counter. He kneels in front of me.
That is new too.
Shady on his knees should be a joke. It is not. He is still big there. Still rough. Still dangerous. But he lowers his head over my hand like the little cut is something holy he doesn’t deserve to touch.
My throat tightens.
He peels the bandage back carefully.
“Hurts?” he asks.
“Yes.”
