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Stepping deeper into her home, he looked around. Minimalist, utilitarian furniture. Plain white walls. A few abstract pieces of art that provided hints of color. No knickknacks. No personal photos. A flat-screen TV sat on an empty bookcase opposite a taupe sofa. The coffee table was nothing more than a scratched metal storage trunk. Unopened cardboard boxes lined the far wall.
Since she’d gotten a flat tire on the road nearby almost nine months ago, he knew she hadn’t just moved in. “How long have you lived here?”
“Two and half years.”
It was as if the place was merely functional. A place to eat and sleep. Not a sanctuary. She hadn’t even fully unpacked.
“You don’t spend much time here, do you?” he asked.
“No. The USD is open seven days a week, fifteen hours a day to give anyone interested in taking a class a chance to fit one into their schedule.” Glancing around, she stiffened. “Why do you ask?”
Not one to lie and not willing to get sidetracked by offending her, he said, “How about we get your face and arms cleaned up.”
Charlie shook her head. “It’s only a few cuts and some singed hair,” she said, fingering a bunch of strands. “It can wait. Have a seat.” She gestured to the living room.
She dropped into a chair across from the sofa. Beside her was an end table. On top of it was a lamp and a glass with amber liquid. He noted a hole in her leggings that exposed pale skin on her calf and blood.
Tending to her wounds, no matter how minor, should be the priority, but he also sensed this needed to be on her terms. “It’s going to be hard for me to focus with you injured and bleeding. Let’s compromise. We get you bandaged up while you explain why I’m here. You do know how to compromise, don’t you?” He was half joking. The other part of him wondered just how stubborn she really was.
A groan, fraught with impatience, rolled from Charlie. “I do.” Her jaw clenched. “I simply don’t do it often. There’s generally no need.”
Since he was making headway, he figured he’d push a bit further. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”
Gripping the arms of the chair, she started to rise.
“Allow me to get it for you.” He dared put a hand on her shoulder, urging her stay seated.
She flinched from his touch like his palm had scalded her. “I’m not an invalid.”
“Clearly, but Rocco made me promise to take care of you.”
“I don’t think he meant like this.”
No, he hadn’t. “Still, he’d be happy if I did, and it’ll earn me some brownie points with my mom.” Hopefully with Charlie as well.
“I can’t believe you care about brownie points with your mother.” She looked him over, from head to toe and back up to his face. “Then again, I take it back. I can.”
Why did that not sound like a compliment?
“Were you a Boy Scout, too?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I was. Cub Scout first.” He left out the part about the Cubs being the equivalent of the Brownies where the term brownie point originated.
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Oh, give me a break.”
How was that a bad thing?
She was a hard case. Only intensified the itch he would one day scratch.
He was an eternal optimist if nothing else. “Where’s your first-aid stuff?”
“Lower kitchen cabinet, next to the pantry. Don’t expect to find some fancy, tricked out med bag like you probably have.”
With a curt nod, he went to grab it. In the cabinet, there were basic supplies that paled in comparison to what he had in his truck, much less in his house. At home, he had a complete suture kit. She didn’t even have hydrogen peroxide or alcohol.
Not that it was necessary. The saline solution and antibiotic ointment would suffice. He also grabbed gauze along with bandages and paper towels.
He returned to the living room and knelt in front of her.
