The door creaks open, showing a very upbeat Riley, who’s smiling as if she’s not in pain, even though we both know that’s not true.
“Thanks for the clothes. I’ll return them soon. I can go back. You don’t have to—” Her words die in her throat when she sees me pressing a sandwich. “Is that a sandwich?”
I nod.
“You made me a sandwich?”
I lean inward, applying more pressure on the grill press and simultaneously offering her a smile.
“Is this what you do?”
“What?”
“Give gas to strangers, carry heavy boxes into cabins, and save clueless women from a fire, and then make them a sandwich.”
My throat lets a scoff free. “All those things happened just with you. It’s been a very uneventful ten months, living here.”
“Ten months?” she asks. “You’ve been working here for ten months, and nobody told me?”
She may be talking at me, but nottome—she’s looking around for answers I don’t have, speaking her mind out loud.
“Does your sister always tell you the decisions she makes for the farm? It was my understanding she was running things here.”
She leans against the counter. “No, not really. I’ve been away at college for a while, and then I traveled some, which she doesn’tknow, so don’t tell her.” Her mouth is running a mile a minute. “She said she wanted me to experience things without worrying about the ranch. Except it’s turned into me being disconnected from the place I call home, even if it doesn’t feel like one anymore.”
I remove the sandwich from the press, bouncing her words in my head. College? Like a master’s, right? Not like a twenty-one-year-old college student.
“College?” I ask. I have to, as I slide the plate in front of her. She twists her hair behind her head into one of those hard-to-explain things women do to keep their hair away from their faces.
She grabs the sandwich with both hands; before I can warn her, she drops it and shouts, “Mother of fuck, that’s hot.”
I chuckle, earning me a sullen look. “Sorry,” I murmur. I pull the first aid kit from under the sink, walking around the butcher’s top kitchen island to her. I offer my beat-up hand to her, which she eyes suspiciously. I lift the first aid kit.
“You don’t have to. It’s fine, look.” She shows her hands and flinches at the sight. Her fingers look glossy over an angry red color, clearly burned. I inspect her hand and realize I don’t have anything here to help, but I do in the bathroom. My mom always says the best thing for burns is either the hospital or toothpaste. If it’s bad enough, I fear it will get infected; it's a trip to the hospital. If not, toothpaste works. So, I grab that and bring it back out to her.
“Does my breath stink?” she asks as soon as she sees the toothpaste in my hand, making me chuckle again. “I’m so glad I’m providing comedic relief with my naked body, burned body parts, and bad breath.” She hops off the barstool. “I’m going home.”
I hold her forearm, digging my fingertips into it, though not on purpose, so I let go. She stops regardless. “No, it’s not for your breath. Please stay.”
“Then what’s it for?” She’s ashamed, clear as day.
“Sit down, please.”
She does, making my dick twitch with how quick she followed my directions. Fuck. We cannot like this girl. She’s technically myboss, and she never answered my question about college, but it makes me wonder if she’s as young as I think she is. Fuck me.
I take her hand, looking at the contrast of how rough mine looks next to her delicate fingers, but I don’t pay too much attention so as to make it awkward. I clear my throat. “This is a Dominican remedy.”
“What is?” she asks.
“Toothpaste on burns.” I spread some on her hand, holding it between both of mine and gently massaging the paste across her palm and onto each finger. She’s holding her breath, which makes me fight harder to slow mine. In an attempt to do so, I say, “Your sandwich is good to eat now.”
I fall to my knees, grabbing her foot and continuing with the toothpaste where the pot hit her. She’s ticklish and flinches every time I try to grab her foot to inspect it. I don’t comment and just smile internally. It should be fine now.
“Sleep with it on and wipe it off tomorrow. My mom swears by it, so I hope it helps.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, as if she’s so used to pushing through discomfort, or even pain, to appease others. She takes another bite of her sandwich.
“Beer? Water? Juice?” I ask. Jesus, is she old enough to drink?
