Page 23 of Heartbreaker

When I find the kit, I move back to where he’s standing and get to work, methodically pulling out bandages, alcohol wipes, and antibiotic cream. His jaw is still tight as he stands there, fingers flexing.

“You’ve gotta calm down,” I murmur. “You can’t leave here angry. I’m sure the press is right outside, waiting for your comment.”

“Fuck them. Fuck all of them. He hit me first.”

“I know,” I say, because I do, even if the choice to give in to the urge was stupid. “But you and I both know that doesn’t matter. One of you was suspended from the team for bad behavior, and it wasn’t him. He’s got a pristine, all-American boy image. You’re the bad boy.”

“Fucking bullshit,” he grumbles. “It’s all bullshit.” I don’t know if he means the image of a bad boy, something I’m starting to realize quickly is, in fact, a fabrication, or the fact that Levi is the golden boy, but I don’t ask.

Instead, I stand before him, my mouth twisting as I figure out how to do this. Looking around, I try to find a good solution.

“What?” he asks, that edge still in his voice.

“You’re a little tall,” I murmur. “You’re gonna have to bend, I think.” He sighs, running a hand through his tousled waves. Then, before I can say anything, his rough, firm hands are on my waist, gripping securely before lifting me. A little yelp leaves my lips as he sets my ass on the cold metal of the table.

“Will this work?” he asks, his lips tipping up. Relief rolls through me as some of the residual anger on his face melts away. It’s probably time, distance, and clarity doing the job, but some sick, twisted, stupidly romantic part of me likes the idea of him melting a bit from being close to me, from touching me, and standing just inches from me.

God, I’m such a moron.

It doesn’t stop me from smiling at him, though, or from noting that we’re eye to eye like this, the perfect height for kissing.

Stay focused, Lana. The man is bleeding.

“Perfect,” I say, my voice breathy before I rip open an alcohol wipe, trying to distract myself. Slowly, I start to dab it on the cut. When he hisses through his teeth, I mumble an apology. “Sorry. I have to clean it. Who knows where his hands have been?” Rome lets out an unexpected laugh, and I smile back.

“How’s it look?” he asks after a moment.

“It’s deep, but it’s stopped bleeding. I don’t think it’ll need stitches, unless you’re worried about scarring. It’s across your eyebrow.” He shakes his head gently.

“I don’t give a shit. It will probably make me hotter.” He’s not wrong.

“Not something you need,” I murmur without thinking, then blush almost immediately before working on opening the bandages.

“Did you just call me hot?”

“No, I just meant if the world perceived you as any hotter, you probably wouldn’t be able to fit your inflated ego into the truck.” Again, he laughs, this time tipping his head back. I’m still smiling when his laughter fades, though my breath catches when his thumb brushes the outside of my thigh, just below the hem of my shorts. The skin there burns beneath the touch, and I try to focus on the task at hand.

“I’m gonna put butterfly bandages on it. That might help keep it together, minimize the scarring.”

“You sure know a lot about this stuff. Were you a nurse in a past life, too?”

“What?”

“You’ve been a personal trainer, a dirt bike extraordinaire, a server. Now you’re a nurse.” I smile softly, then shake my head.

“No, no. This one wasn’t a former job. I have two older brothers and was raised by a single dad. I’ve had to patch up my fair share of wounds for stubborn men who refuse to go to the ER.”

“Mmm,” he says, the noise low, then winces again as I touch what must be a sensitive spot.

“I’d feel bad, but you kind of asked for this. He was baiting you, and you took it.”

“And then I baited him back, and he hit first,” he says, not a thread of regret in the words.

“You and I both know that in the eyes of the press, that doesn’t matter.” After a moment, he sighs, the sound filled with bone-deep exhaustion.

“I know. I want to do better.”

“So you can get back into racing?” I ask, trying to encourage him to speak about it more, and I realize, with discomfort, it’s not because of the job. I’m not gleaning information from him to add to our notes, to clarify some aspect of the case I can’t quite grasp, even though I should. It’s because I want to know him. I want to sharpen the mental image I have of Rome, to understand exactly what makes him tick, to understand him as a person.