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I find the plant and return with a piece of it. Kneeling back down, I gently rub the sticky salve over the burn. I realize I’ve got my one hand spread over his abs for balance as I work. They are rock hard, and they tighten every time the aloe brushes his skin.
“Miss Caraway?” he growls.
Lord, give me strength.
“I grabbed a bandage while I was in there, so it won’t get all over your shirt.” Pulling it out of my back pocket, I smooth the large bandage over the burn. “There. You should probably have that looked at by someone.” Looking back up, I’m met by eyes so dark brown I can’t discern where the pupil ends and the iris begins.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to shoot you,” I say, rising to my feet. My heart is like a hammer in my chest.
“Whatwereyour intentions?” he asks.
His voice is husky. It does nothing to stop the hammering. I shrug. I have no intention of explaining to anyone that I’m working through a list of regrets before I turn the ancient age of thirty.
“Is your name really George Eliot Caraway?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Any of it, either the name or my intentions. No one this good-looking would ever have regrets about things they were too scared to do when they were young.
“That you were named after the pen name of one of the most famous British authors of the Victorian era? Mary Ann Evans wrote such notable works asThe Mill on the Floss,Silas Marner, andMiddlemarchwhich is considered her greatest work.” He gives me a smirk before moving to pull a clean T-shirt out of his bottom desk drawer.
I’m standing here like a fish with my mouth open staring at him. I’m not sure if it’s because of his knowledge of the British novelist or, well, his abs.
“You’ll get along great with my sister,” I mumble.
“The librarian,” he says like they’re best friends.
“Of course.” I don’t have a problem with Austen. She’s just everyone’s best friend. The cool younger sister. Bleh.
“If you’re going to throw me in jail, then do it so I can lay down. I’m getting tired.” I cross my arms over my chest and refuse to meet his gaze. Because that’s the mature thing to do. “I’ll need to call my dad to bail me out.” I can feel him studying me as he holds his shirt in his hand.
“Come on, I’ll take you back to your car. But if I catch you doing anything like that again, I’ll toss you in the back cells until morning.”
Pulling his T-shirt on, he hands me my license. He motions for me to proceed with him down the hallway. We say goodbye to the other lone officer, and I feel a warm hand land on my lower back as he ushers me out the door.
“I can walk back, but thank you,” I say. If he continues to touch me, I’ll melt into a puddle. Please save me from becoming a swooning accountant. I’m not even sure that’s possible.
“It’s dark. I’ll drive you back.”
“What do you think happens here after dark?” I motion to the empty street in front of the sheriff’s office. “Let me fill you in, Officer…” I didn’t catch his last name. He’s no longer wearing his nametag.
“Steele,” he says, taking a step closer.
“What?” What were we talking about? Damn him for sending my senses into overload with his woodland scent.
“Owen Steele,” he answers, patting his chest. “My name.”
“Dick,” I mumble.
“Owen,” he reiterates, having clearly heard me. At least he has somewhat of a sense of humor.
“Let me tell you what happens around here after dark, Officer Steele.”
“Owen.”
“At least you know your name.”
Now the corners of his mouth are starting to twitch. He must have me under his spell or something; I’m usually not quite this snarky.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing happens here after dark. People just go to bed.”
