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She strolled through a door and rested her hand on the frame, pausing. Dean stood within a fully tiled bathroom, a heavy stream of water filling the sink and disturbing the quiet.
He scrubbed his hands in quick motions under the taps, again, not looking at her, though he did speak. “Given how fired up you are, I’m sure there’s not much I can say right now that will make you hate me less. The sheriff asked where I was that night. I couldn’t lie. Can we drop this now?”
His left bicep rippled from beneath his dark gray t-shirt, though she could only see one side of him since he stood in profile. Her breath quickened at the size of him, his clear physical strength and unrefined air. Even when in a prickly mood, he still got to her.
He should be the last man I want right now.
“You could have at least warned me.” She dipped her attention to the occasional flash of a white hand towel in the sink, unable to figure out what the hell he was doing or why. “The surprise official visit came while I was at work.”
“I don’t have your number, remember?” He turned to her, his face pale and sporting a somewhat clammy sheen. “Though, you’re comfortable enough to follow me around my house, so maybe I should?”
Her gaze dropped and snagged on the state of his right arm—a bandage at the top with a crimson bloom soaking through, his forearm streaked in red despite his covert scrubbing.
“Holy shit!” She charged forward, her anger collapsing as she reached for the towel in the sink—a towel that, on closer inspection, was tinged pink. “What happened to you?”
She wrung out the towel and began wiping at the remaining blood down his arm, working her way up to the ineffectual bandage.
Dean’s iceberg gaze didn’t waver from hers, though it took on a harder edge. “I happened to be strolling by the nursery just as the Chadleys were trying to demolish it. One of them threw a bottle, and I got this.”
He lifted his arm, gesturing to his concealed injury.
“And the sheriff didn’t call the doctor for you?” She yanked off the bandage and winced at the open wound there. No wonder the sheriff had asked her not to tip off Aggie about the nursery. “This wound needs stitches.”
He shrugged and pulled off his bloodied shirt. “The sheriff tried to call the doctor and got no answer. Anyway, I can handle this. I’ve had worse.”
She shook her head at his overconfidence and the sheriff’s lack of action. Dean lowered his injured arm and grimaced through the effort.
“The way I see it you have two choices.” She tossed the stained bandage into a small trash can near the sink. “I can get you to the nearest hospital, but that’s a good hour away, or you can take a seat on the edge of that bath over there, and I can stitch you up myself.”
She nodded at the bath but kept her attention on him. Even covered in dirt and blood, Dean drew her in, enough to make her forget her earlier anger. Enough to make her launch into action just so she could stop staring at him, and because she also didn’t like to stand idle when someone clearly needed help. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
He pointed to the sink. “Drawer to the left.”
She turned away and found a navy-blue case about the size of a toolbox and somewhat larger than the usual home first aid kit. The damage to his bicep appeared small, but the area would get lots of movement, and the constant seeping meant the cut ran too deep to heal unattended.
“We’ll sterilize your wound and the needle first.” She balanced the case on a wide ledge on one end of the bath before throwing the case open and assessing what supplies he had, stopping to frown at a plastic pack containing a suture needle and thread. “You especially accident prone or something? These don’t come in your standard kit.”
She waved the pack in his direction, snatching up a small bottle of rubbing alcohol while she was at it.
His hooded eyelids narrowed before they relaxed. “Something like that. Seems you have some experience with wounds too.”
She coated the needle with alcohol and dropped some onto a cotton pad for his wound. He groaned at her touch, and not in a good way, his muscles taut with a clear desire to escape the pain. “Glass injuries come with the territory of running a bar. Besides, I grew up in the country with a clumsy younger brother.”
“And where were Mommy and Daddy while little Sarah was saving the day?” Dean’s voice echoed against the small bathroom’s walls, somehow highlighting just how alone they were together, despite his all-too-clever lift of a brow.
She took the threaded needle and gleefully dug the first stitch into his arm.
He hissed, muscles again clenching. She did her best to hide a satisfied smirk. “If you must know, Daddy was a doctor, a surgeon actually. He worked at the hospital I mentioned and taught me how to do this. A skill I’ve used on occasion over the years.”
Especially after Daddy Dearest disappeared to a new city, with a new woman, leaving Sarah alone with her brother and shell-shocked mother.
She tied the first stitch and moved to the next, figuring she’d need about six to finish the job. “And we weren’t talking about my family. We were talking about you and your propensity to cause more trouble than I bargained for.”
“Right. That.” His attention rested on her hand pressed to his naked shoulder from behind, the careful stroke of that attention sparking a dance of nerves inside her tummy. “Look, the sheriff came to me. It’s not like I went searching for someone to share our story with. And if I had wanted to talk, it sure as shit wouldn’t be with Sheriff Marlin.”
She cleared her throat, seeking distraction. “Really? So now you’re getting visits from the sheriff and lifts from him too. What am I supposed to think?”
His lips lifted into a slight smile, and his stare trekked up until he held her gaze. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’d promise not to get you in trouble again, but I seem to have a knack for it.”
