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Chapter 8
Cinnamon rested her nose on the edge of the mattress, looking as penitent as a puppy could. I could swear she was asking forgiveness.
I scratched her head and grinned when her eyes closed in ecstasy. “You’re so easy,” I said. “Fickle, aren’t you?”
Finley reappeared. “She is at that. Move, you big galumph.” He sat down near my hip and began digging through his cache of supplies.
I jerked upright abruptly, tugging the shirt to my knees. “Does that mean me, or the dog?”
The man actually grinned. It didn’t last long. I sensed that it was reluctant humor at best, but I felt a sense of accomplishment.
“Very funny, Duchess. Hold still while I do this. You’ve got bits of dirt and debris mixed in with the blood.”
After that, I couldn’t think of a thing to say, comic or otherwise. Finley Craig handled my legs with all the dispassion of a medical professional. From where I was sitting, it felt extremely personal.
First, he tucked a towel beneath my thighs to protect the bedding. Then, without any warning at all, he dumped half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over one kneecap and then the other. I shuddered and winced. The sting and the burn weren’t pleasant, though the white fizziness did give me some reassurance that the liquid was doing its job.
Next, my amateur physician patted my knees dry with a paper towel and gently spread a thin film of antibiotic cream over the large expanses of scraped skin. He was careful…almost tender. When I sneaked a peek at his face, I noted his frown.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” I said meekly. “I could have managed on my own.”
“With what?” Finley head snapped up. His eyes flashed as he called me out on my bravado. I didn’t like having to rely on anyone else, but in this case, he was right.
“Does it need a bandage?” I asked.
“Don’t be so impatient. I’m about to cover it for the night so the medicine stays in place.”
“Yes, sir.” I nearly snapped a salute. The hour was late and my judgment was impaired, so I squashed the impulse.
Finley ignored my smart-ass response as he fastened a square adhesive bandage across each knee. “You can leave these off during the day tomorrow if you want to…or wait until the day after.” He finished his task and straightened. His handiwork wasn’t my most fashionable look, but my legs weren’t aching as much.
He picked up the first aid kit. “Come on, Cinnamon. It’s a night in the office for you, my girl.”
This time I let it slide. I wasn’t a pro when it came to canine training, but I had to admit I hated watching the sweet, rambunctious dog trot out the door. “Thank you, Finley,” I said. “I’m sorry I let her get away from me.”
He turned, his hand on the doorframe. “You’re welcome.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Be honest, Duchess. Are you wearing anything at all under my shirt?”
I felt my face go hot. “No,” I said. “I’m not.”
* * * *
I think I must have dozed off the moment the door closed behind my host and his dog. I slept deeply. When I awoke hours later, I felt reasonably rested and refreshed for the first time since leaving the States a few days ago. The problems that had seemed overwhelming last night were more like inconveniences this morning.
But first, breakfast…
After dressing in the same white pantsuit and silk tank, I padded barefoot down to the kitchen. Though I was accustomed to getting my caffeine fix via tea while in the UK, Finley owned an honest-to-god coffee pot. And it was almost full. Hallelujah! I inhaled the aroma like a junkie anticipating a fix.
In one of the cabinets, I found a collection of mismatched mugs. I chose the one that said Bikers Do It On the Run. I wasn’t exactly sure what to make of that slogan, but the heavy ceramic cup was the biggest of the lot, and I needed a jolt of java to get me through this day.
Cinnamon was nowhere to be seen or heard. Perhaps she was with her master, out for a morning run, or more likely, off at work. Come to think of it, what exactly did Finley do for a living?
I sat at the round oak table, chin propped on one hand, and drank my coffee slowly, willing it to perk me up. Finley had left the toaster and a loaf of bread in a prominent position on the counter, but I wasn’t hungry.
I was halfway through my second cup when I heard the front door open. Moments later, man and dog appeared. Cinnamon must have taken Finley’s scolding to heart, because instead of bounding across the room, she went to the corner where her water dish sat, slurped up a mouthful, and curled up to study the humans.
“You make good coffee.” I lifted my mug in greeting. To the man, not the dog.
Finley nodded. “I had a feeling you were a coffee woman.”
