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I clear my throat. “Lucky for you, I’m good with sutures and the clinic isn’t far. Let’s get you into my car.”
Without waiting for her to snarl again and tell me she’d rather get devoured by wild animals than accept my assistance, I wrap one arm around her back and steady her with my hand on her hip. The warmth of her against me is instant, my thighs flexing with awareness. She’s wearing a tank top and tiny running shorts, both fabrics thin and clingy.
More than my thighs flex.
Once she’s on her feet, she tries to put weight on her cut leg and falls into my side. “You suck at holding me up.” She may be insulting me, but her tone’s more pleasant than I’ve heard in years.
I tighten my grip on her hip, can’t seem to control how my fingers press into her. “You suck at waiting in line.”
She laughs, then schools her face. “I don’t think letting you near me with a needle is a good idea.”
“You can hold a scalpel to my neck while I suture you. I know you fantasize about slicing my jugular.”
“I don’t.” But her shoulders shake with barely suppressed amusement.
“You do.”
“No, really, I don’t. It’s more of a beheading, and I place your head on a stake outside my house.”
I laugh outright, always on a seesaw of emotions with this woman. Hate. Attraction. Guilt. Worry. Amusement. Once we’re both in the car, I turn the ignition.
She wrinkles her nose. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Since never.” I turn the car around and head back toward the clinic. “But some novice driver rear-ended me, and this is the crap rental car I’m stuck with.”
She doesn’t smile at my joke. She looks downright hurt, which isn’t exactly fair. She’s the one who made a crack about spiking my sliced-off head.
I grip the wheel so tight my fingers pinch. She focuses on the passenger window, the two of us riding the rest of the way in the type of silence that has me squirming.
At the clinic, Naomi, of course, tries to get out of the car on her own and almost falls on her face. Stubborn Witch of Windfall. Instead of letting her hobble to the clinic entrance, I walk over and lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.
She sputters and smacks my shoulder. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Being a gentleman.”
“The last thing you are, Avett Lewis, is a gentleman. Put me down.”
I don’t put her down or walk forward. She’s hurt and frustrated. The last thing she needs is to deal with more drama, but as I hold her against my chest, my mind fills with the misunderstanding she’s lived with all these years—overhearing a guy she maybe liked telling his friends she was unattractive—and I can’t wait another second before apologizing.
A cooler breeze drifts through the quiet parking lot. I adjust her in my arms, holding her closer. “You hate me because you think I insulted you in high school.”
She stiffens, her chest barely rising. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Well, I do. It’s been a seven-year misunderstanding that needs to end.” When she doesn’t reply, I take a breath and forge on. “That conversation you overheard, my rude insults—they weren’t directed at you.”
She angles her face toward me, her ponytail swinging with the move, bringing us almost nose-to-nose. Her nails, which could double as talons, dig into my shoulders. “I was there, Avett. I heard what you said and saw that piece of poster you tore apart.”
Such a disaster of a day. “Yes, I ruined your posters. I was in a messed-up place and wasn’t thinking about much besides myself. But that rude stuff you overheard? The paper bag and whatever? I thought the guys were talking about Cameron Diaz, not you. I only found out last night that my stupid remarks turned into the Everest of fucked-up misunderstandings.”
“You’re so full of shit.” Those talons dig deeper.
Of course she doesn’t believe me. She caught me with the evidence of my actual misdeed stuck to my jacket. Or maybe something more happened I don’t know about. I apparently don’t remember important details about our interactions. Still, I can’t control my mounting frustration, the urge to shout at her for years of antagonism. “I’m not lying.”
“You sabotaged my campaign,” she whisper-yells. “Of course you’re lying.”
“One thing has nothing to do with the other. Why the hell would I have said those things about you?”
Her laugh is as ugly as my vandalism that day. “Whywouldn’tyou have said those things?”
