Page 59 of My Unfinished Heart

“There’s coffee, isn’t there?”

“If there is, I’ll make some.”

“Sorry I’m like this,” I say again, apologizing for a lot of things with those words.

I feel his lips press into my forehead. “When it comes to you, I’m not picky.”

“What does that mean?”

He ignores that, too, and helps me up from the floor. He stands close and watches while I brush my teeth. I don’t mind until I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Shit.” I lean forward to see the gash on my cheek.

“Yeah. You’re all banged up.”

“I can’t believe you left your house with me.”

He slides himself onto the counter, spreading his legs to make room for me to stand between them. “Come here. Let me clean you up.” He wets a washcloth and rubs some soap into it.

Fucking dream scenario.

“It’s gonna hurt, isn’t it?” I ask, putting myself exactly where I want to be.

“Not any more than a broken knee, I’m guessing.”

My hands rest on his strong thighs. My brief liaisons with men never involved a lot of exploration. Mostly kissing with the express purpose of breaking the ice, and then a rush to get off, but it’s been awhile. A few years. I’ve only been with women for so long that touching any part of Tristan’s body feels like a new adventure.

I’ve never really stopped to consider my type when it came to men, and I don’t know that I would have pictured someone like Tristan if I had. Yes, he’s physically beautiful. His bone structure borders on severe, but his hair softens the harsher angles that make up his face. There’s a boyishness to him, but androgyny, too. I can picture him in a ball cap with scruff, and I can picture him with eyeliner and glittery lips. His body is more substantial than someone like my brother, but there’s no bulk to him, only definition.

He’s exactly right, hits all the right notes.

I watch his gorgeous face while he cleans my cuts. He keeps his eyes on what he’s doing most of the time, but his flirty gaze meets mine a time or two. I try to smile at him, but he squeezes his thighs against my hips, staying serious. “I can’t do this if you keep moving your face.”

“Sorry.”

“Shh.”

“You almost done?”

“Why? Do you have something else you want to do with me?” he asks, something like a dare in his eyes.

I laugh. I wish. It’s occurring to me far too late that whether he’s willing or not, we can’t have sex here. I don’t have a condom, I don’t have lube. I don’t have anything that would make having sex with a virgin okay, much less good. But that doesn’t mean we can’t explore other ways of memorizing each other.

“I guess I’m done,” he sighs. “I can’t do this if you won’t be still.”

“Sorry. I should take a shower anyway. I smell like a kumquat tree.”

“No, you don’t. You smell like you and me. Don’t shower.”

My heart rate doubles, and I can’t form a coherent thought. “Okay,” is the only word I remember how to say.

He puts the washcloth down, but his hands come right back to my face like he’s inspecting it. “This face…” He sighs, his gaze roaming all over it.

“What?” I ask, nervous again, not about the surface of my face, but what he might be able to see if he looks too close.

“It’s a really good one.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

He’s not looking me in the eyes when he says, “It’s always been my favorite.”