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“What is it?” I ask.
“You’re bleeding. Where are you bleeding?”
“What?” I blink as he jostles me in his arms then listen to him curse when he notices the lamp is not on the table but on the floor next to the bed.
“Did you cut your feet?” I don’t have a chance to answer him before he carefully sets me away and gets up. Then I watch him stalk to the light switch and flip it on. His gaze zeros in on my feet, and I cringe at the sight of blood that has dotted my sheets and blankets. “Shit,” he growls, coming back toward me and scooping me up out of bed like I weigh nothing at all. Going to the bathroom, he flips on the light then sets me down on the edge of the vanity. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“No, but I have some Band-Aids in one of these drawers.” I start to hop down to find them, but he stops me, wrapping his hands around my waist.
My breath stutters as he places his face an inch from mine. “Stay put. I have a kit in my truck. I’ll be right back.”
“I…” I lick my lips, trying to fight the urge to lean in and place my mouth to his. “I think I just need to wash my feet off. The cuts don’t look that bad.”
“Stay put,” he orders, kisses my forehead, and then disappears.
“Stay put? What the hell am I, a dog?”
“I heard that,” I hear him say, and I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. Not even two minutes later, he comes back in carrying a large plastic case that he sets on the vanity and opens. I watch him pull out a bottle of alcohol and a roll of gauze then turn on the tap. My eyes widen when he wraps his arm under my knees and lifts my legs so that my feet are in the sink. I bite the inside of my cheek when the water hits the open cuts.
“This might burn a little.” He turns off the water then pours the alcohol on my open wounds, making me jump and cry out.
“A little?” I shout. “It feels like my feet are on fire now.” I grip his forearm and dig my nails into his skin. “Oh my God, blow on it or something, you jerk!” I continue to yell, and he laughs. “This isn’t funny.”
“Breathe, the burn will ease in a second.”
“Says the guy who’s not being tortured,” I grouch, watching him smile. “I hate you.” I place my arms behind me when he lifts one foot then the other. When he touches one of the cuts, I flinch.
“The cuts aren’t deep, but this one has a piece of glass in it that I need to get out.”
“Great, more torture. Are you enjoying this?”
His eyes meet mine, and the look in them is so intense my breathing stops. “I’d never enjoy hurting you.”
My quiet “Okay” is barely audible as we stare at each other. With a jerk of his chin, he pulls his eyes from mine then digs out a pair of tweezers from his kit. I watch the muscle in his cheek jump as he carefully and painlessly pulls the piece of splintered glass from my foot, and then groan when he lifts the bottle of alcohol. “Is that really necessary? You already did it once.”
“Sorry, baby, I’m not taking any chances.” Without warning, he pours the cold liquid over my skin and I flinch from the burn. When he’s done, and the burning has eased, he dries off both my feet. I sigh in relief when he tears open a few packets of ointment and slathers my skin before starting to wrap my feet with gauze.
“Thank goodness I don’t have to work tomorrow. If I did, I would look like an idiot wearing heels having mummy feet,” I tell him, and he looks at me briefly and smiles. At his smile, my heart does a double beat inside my chest and my body gets warm from head to toe. I know if I turned and looked at myself in the mirror I’d look like a bright red tomato. “Um… I think I need to say something about what happened earlier,” I start, needing to fill the silence in the bathroom.
“You don’t unless you want to,” he states, setting down one foot when he’s done wrapping it and picking up the other.
“I don’t really want to talk about it, but I want you to know that… I… umm.” Crap, how do I tell him that I’m not a hussy?
“You don’t have to say anything, Hadley. I know that what you’re going through is difficult, and that until you talk to someone it’s going to keep messing with your head. It will get easier.”
