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I nod. All signs of tears are gone now. I feel numb inside. I can’t find the energy to tell him the wounds I’ve irrigated were on bears.
With no other words, he shuts his eyes. The stool has no back, so I can see the muscles of his back shift as he relaxes just a little. My gaze catches on his ink, but I don’t let myself linger.
I reach for his hair, a nervous fullness in my throat. My body flushes as my fingers sift through his dark curls. All around the wound, his hair is damp, so I can see his scalp with ease. I can see the long scars, making an imperfect pink semi-circle just over his ear.
My stomach twists. “You had a craniotomy?”
His eyes open, and I can feel his back and shoulders stiffen. As if in answer, the wound—along the rightmost side—seeps.
His shrewd blue eyes are blank and maybe hard; I can’t tell what he’s thinking, so I’m surprised when he says, “Nothing that a little glue can’t fix, Miss White.”
Despite the sternness of his face, his tone is unmistakably gentle.
I nod. And breathe. Should I tell him that I had one, too? Mine is on the back of my head, safely hidden underneath my hair. I swallow. Then I pull a little on each side of the wound, until it parts and I can gauge the depth.
Seeing that pink skin makes my stomach clench. “Does it hurt?” I whisper.
“No.”
I don’t believe him, but I rinse the wound with saline, and he doesn’t move at all. I’m standing so close to his back that I can feel the heat of him. I’m trying not to look down at his amazing body, so as I let the saline sink in, I let my palm hover over his hair and train my eyes on it.
“I think you can wash your hair, with a washcloth,” I say softly, “but not until the Dermabond sets.” Of course, he probably knows that. My cheeks warm. I call forth my long-benched acting skills and try to keep my voice casual and steady. “I could maybe wash the area that’s not right by the cut.”
We look at each other—me trying to hide the way each sight of his show-stopping face makes my stomach twist, him seeming steady and reserved. Removed.
“Why don’t you let me?” I say in my new, faux calm, assertive tone. “I can see the area better than you can. In a minute I can use some gauze to dry around the wound and then I’ll glue it and be gone.”
He frowns, and I think I see one of his cheeks pull in a little, as if he’s biting the inside of it. That draws my attention to his lips. Dear baby Jesus, they look even more plump in the bathroom light. Perfect, succulent, and somehow very masculine, surrounded by that shadow on his chin and cheeks.
His tongue rolls out along the lower lip, and I have to look away. I see a towel on the counter—wet already.
“Is this…” I reach for it, stepping away from him—thank God.
“That one is fine.”
I wet it while he sits there, gaze trained on his hands again. I notice blood on his fingers and pass him the towel. “Here—I’ll get another one for
your hair.”
To the right of the long countertop, there’s a bank of cabinets. I find a few more towels there and set all but the washcloth on the countertop beside his first aid kit. As I stand back at the sink, waiting for warm water, it strikes me how strange this whole thing is—in addition to awkward, painful, and humiliating.
I don’t even know his name. I attacked him. I attacked my brand new neighbor. The neighbor that saved my business by purchasing this place. I kicked him in the head while he was out hunting. Now I’ve burst into his house and forced my nursing assistance on him. I’m overwhelmed by the company of a male human and worried about ruining my panties because he’s so breathtakingly attractive.
I wonder what the hell he thinks of me. Probably that I’m mentally unstable. Or worse…the pathetic handicapped woman who has nothing else to do but push herself on strangers.
I can feel his eyes on me as I hold the towel under the warm water, but I don’t meet them. I’m far too embarrassed. When my towel is warm and wet, I return to stand beside him. He tilts his head slightly rightward, so I have better access to the gash, and as he does, I notice the thick, pink rope of scar tissue atop his left shoulder blade.
“Mm.” I don’t mean to make a sound; the murmur escapes me.
His eyes rise to mine in the mirror, his sharp brows notching slightly.
“Sorry.” My fingertip hovers over the scar for a moment before I stroke some hair about two inches from his wound, gathering the stiff curls in one hand and using the warm towel to clean them. His head is down again, so I can’t see his face.
What is that huge scar from? I break my self-imposed no-looking rule and sneak another peek at it, finding that it actually starts up by his neck and twines over his left shoulder, down his shoulder blade. It’s so thick and jagged.
Not your business.
I try to settle my attention on his hair.
