Page 70 of Third Strike Smitten

His thumb traces the edge of the swelling on my cheekbone, feather-light, careful not to hurt me. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “Isla, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” I reply, catching his hand in mine. “It was an accident.”

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers intertwine with mine, his grip firm but gentle. “The bleeding has mostly stopped,” he says, his eyes still fixed on my face. “But your cheek is swelling pretty badly. And your nose...” He trails off, his jaw tightening.

“What about my nose?” I ask, suddenly nervous.

“It’s...it looks okay, actually.” His thumb brushes across the bridge of my nose, sending shivers down my spine despite the pain. “It’s not crooked or anything. I think Seb was wrong about it being broken.”

“See? Not the end of the world.” I try to smile, but it pulls at my swollen cheek, making me wince. “Ow. Okay, no smiling either. Noted.”

Killian doesn’t laugh at my joke this time. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a clean dish towel, running it under cold water before gently pressing it against my nose. The coolness feels divine against my throbbing skin.

“Hold this here,” he instructs, guiding my hand to the towel. “I’m going to get some ice.”

“Actually, before you do that, do you think…I mean…would it be possible to get a shower? I can feel that there’s blood on my face and neck and honestly washing off the sweat from the day would be nice.”

“Yeah, of course.” He cringes. “Except my shower head is one of those rain-type shower heads. The pressure is nice but if it hits your face at all…”

“Shit, I didn’t think about that.”

We stare at each other as if waiting for the other to come up with a genius idea. Finally, Killian releases a breath and says, “Why don’t I just help you? You can cover your face with your hands so the water doesn’t hit that area, and I’ll wash your hair and your…” he glances down my body. “Well, whatever you need help with.”

I stare at him for a moment, my brain struggling to process what he just said. “You want to help me shower?”

The tips of his ears turn pink, but his expression remains serious. “Look, I know it sounds all kinds of fucked up, but I promise you this isn’t some twisted way of trying to get into your pants. We’re both adults here. I’m not suggesting anything inappropriate,” he says, holding up his hands. “I just want you to feel better. I get that it was an accident but that doesn’t negate the fact that it’s my fault you’re in this predicament.”

I consider this for a moment. The thought of Killian seeing me naked sends a confusing mix of panic and something warm through me. But the alternative—trying to shower alone while still a little dizzy, a lot exhausted, and in pain—doesn’t seem much better.

“If you’re that worried, you can keep your bra and panties on if you want. It’ll be just like you’re wearing a bikini. Then once you’re clean we can get you some more ice and maybe some food if you’re up for it.”

“Alright,” I finally say, sliding off the counter with his hand on my waist to steady me. “But you keep your eyes to yourself.”

The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly before he winks and mumbles, “No promises, Coach.”

15

KILLIAN

The bathroom fills with steam as I adjust the water temperature, trying to find that perfect balance between warm enough to wash away the day and cool enough to soothe Isla’s swollen face. My heart hammers against my ribs like I’m standing on the mound in the bottom of the ninth with bases loaded and a one-run lead.

Not that this is anything like that. Not at all.

“Is this okay?” I ask her over my shoulder.

The swelling on her cheek is darkening to an angry purple, and guilt twists in my gut like a knife. I hear the soft pad of her bare feet on the bathroom floor as she comes up behind me. She sticks her hand in the shower, letting the water run over her skin. She nods, her lids half-closed with exhaustion. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

I step back, giving her space as she reaches for the hem of her shirt. Her fingers tremble slightly, and without thinking, I step forward to help.

“Let me,” I plead, carefully lifting the blood-stained fabric over her head. The shirt catches on her hair, and I have to lean in close to free it, my face inches from hers. She smells like sweat and grass and something sweet underneath—strawberries, maybe—and my mouth goes dry.

When the shirt finally comes off, and she pushes out of her shorts, I finally get a glimpse of what’s underneath and my brain short-circuits.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mumble.

“What?” She glances down at herself and then back at me hurriedly. “What is it? Am I bleeding somewhere?”

“What? No.” I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry, Isla, it’s just…”