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“Got it,” I say as I sit back on my heels. I really should kick my uncomfortable, neck-breaking shoes off, but they make me feel taller and sexier than being barefoot.
Barrett takes the red plastic container from me and pops it open. He sets out several antiseptic wipes and a bandage before closing it back up again and setting it down beside him.
Watching him rip the wipe’s wrapper open with his teeth reminds me of a condom for some reason. Not that I’ve ever seen a man do it in real life, only in movies or shows. But I can totally see Barrett getting in such a hurry to handle his business that he tears the condom wrapper open with his teeth.
While I’m thinking those dirty thoughts, he cups the uninjured side of my face in one of his big, warm hands and then begins swiping at the scrapes on my forehead with the other. His face is so close to mine that I can see a single, jagged golden circle around his blue-green eyes, which are focused on the task at hand.
The longest part is waiting for him to open the bandage and peel the backs off before sticking it to my face.
“I guess I’ll have to figure out a lie to tell my dad and grandma about how I scraped my face.”
“Why can’t you tell them the truth, that you fell in the parking lot. Dress shoes with heels are awful on rocks,” he says.
“Right. Sure.” I just won’t tell them that I was running from an imaginary boogieman.
“Let me see your hands.”
I hold them out, and Barrett flips them over, finding the bloody scratches on my palms.
“We need to clean those too.”
“Yeah, okay,” I agree as he gets out another wipe.
“I’m not sure if the baby oil you put on them helped or hurt your palms. Do you have any other injuries?”
“My dress is trashed. It’ll have to go in the garbage.” I lean back to stretch out my legs and lift the hem. “My knees have a few tiny scrapes.”
Barrett doesn’t comment. He just swipes the wipe over my right palm, then the left, with his brows furrowed in thought. Trying not to flinch at the sting, I try to come up with something to talk about. Maybe I should tell Barrett about the man I thought was following me…
Instead, different words come out of my mouth. “Have you heard anything from your friend about their nonprofit?”
His eyes lift to mine for less than a half second. “Ah, no. Sorry.”
My shoulders slump in disappointment. Bringing up the nonprofit reminds me of something else Barrett said the other day. It’s none of my business, but I can’t seem to help myself. “So, are you still not seeing someone?”
Grinning, he lifts his eyes to mine again, this time for longer. “I showed up at my ex-wife’s wedding. If I was seeing someone, she would’ve thrown my ass to the curb for that.”
“Unless she didn’t find out.”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t ever keep something like that a secret. Honesty in a relationship is the most important thing to me.”
“Me too,” I agree.
“I’ll never understand why people cheat. If they’re not happy, they should just be honest and get out of the relationship.”
“Exactly,” I agree.
“I don’t want to go through that shit again in a relationship. And I’m not the hookup type, even if I do ever get horny again, which I’m starting to doubt will ever happen.” He winces and says, “Sorry. You didn’t need to know all of that.”
Wow. Barrett could have any woman he wants, and yet he basically said he doesn’t have any interest in sex. I can’t believe my sister messed him up so badly.
“I’m sorry she hurt you.”
“My brothers were right – we shouldn’t have gotten married so fast.”
“I think shotgun weddings are sort of romantic – you know, when the bride isn’t knocked up and they’re not doing it because they think it’s the right thing for the kid.”
Barrett smiles as he switches to cleaning my knees. “It was stupid. We barely knew each other after only a few months. I didn’t know about half of the things you told me about her the other day.”
