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“Well, I’m glad I have your approval,” I say with an eye roll.
His smile only expands, but then promptly fades. “I still wish you’d tell me what happened to your wrist.”
Good God, I wish he’d just let this go, but since he refuses to, I’m going to have to lie.
Again.
“I fucking cut it, okay?” I fold my fingers around the bandage. “And it was really stupid how it happened and makes me look like a klutz, which I’m so not, so please don’t make me tell you the story.”
“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly.
I roll my eyes. “Of course I’m okay. I’m always okay.”
That just might be the biggest fucking lie I’ve told in a long time.
His gaze drops to my wrist then glides back up to my eyes. “You don’t need to go get it looked at, like, by a doctor or something?”
I huff out a breath. “No, I don’t. And you seriously need to stop worrying all the time.”
“I can’t help it,” he mutters, looking away from me. “It’s like second nature to me.”
That I can understand more than I wish I did.
“Well, you can stop worrying about me,” I promise. “I’m fine.”
He shakes his head, looking at me again. “No, you’re not, Hadley. But if you need to keep pretending you’re okay, then go ahead. Just know that I’m here to help if you need it.”
“Are you really sure you want to take this on when you’ve got three younger brothers and yourself to worry about already? Plus, you’re now the owner of an auto shop. Seems like your hands are pretty full.”
He winks at me. “Good thing I’m great at juggling.”
I can’t help laughing. “That was pretty lame.”
“Yeah, it sort of was.” He chuckles, combing his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, I must be tired or something.”
“It’s cool.” I pat his head. “You mean well.”
He rolls his tongue in his mouth. “Why are you always doing that?”
I lower my hand to my side. “Doing what?”
“Patting me? Like I’m a dog or something?”
“Sorry, I didn’t even realize I was doing it,” I say, lifting a shoulder. “Does it bother you?”
He gives a half-shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe if you let me do it to you, I might feel better.”
I dare a step forward. “All right, go ahead.”
“You’re really going to let me do it?” he asks disbelievingly.
“Sure. It only seems fair.” Plus, it might distract him from being fixated on my injured wrist and telling me he’s here to help me.
Every time he says stuff like that, I get super uncomfortable. I think I might have issues, but I’m not positive why or where they stem from.
He waits for a beat for me to rescind my offer, and when my lips stay fused, he shrugs. “Okay.” He reaches out and momentarily pats my head, amusement sparkling in his eyes. But then our gazes weld, he swallows hard, and the patting shifts to softly brushing his fingers through my hair. I should stop him—I know I should—but it feels good, sort of like a massage, and makes my headache go down a notch.
“I like your hair,” he mutters, playing with the strands. “It’s so soft.”
