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He shakes his head. “I’ll take it slow. I hurt everywhere.”
“Can I do anything for you, son?”
I turn to Dad standing and watching us. He picks up Franklin’s coat, brushes it off, and eyes us seriously. “I’m sorry about the dog.”
Franklin bows his head. “I’ve made quite the first impression.”
“C’mon, let’s get you inside and cleaned up. I know what it’s like to come out second best to that damn plant. The problem is the thorns can be poisonous, so we need to clean your cuts now.”
“Terrific.” Franklin unrolls carefully. He grimaces before he is fully upright.
“You might need to see a doctor if they swell. You could get an infection and even end up with dermatitis.”
“What was I thinking?” he murmurs.
I lead Franklin inside and formally introduce him to my parents in a rush. I need to attend to him quickly.
Dad pats his shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Franklin. The handshake can wait.”
Franklin assesses the scratches on his hands before meeting my father’s caring gaze. “Thank you, sir. Please call me, Frank.”
Frank?
My beautiful man wants to be less formal around my parents and the gesture pulls at my heartstrings.
Dad shoves the Scrabble game back into its torn box and clears a space at the table.
“You need to remove your shirt.” I leave him to prepare a bowl of soapy water and grab a towel and the first-aid kit. When I return, my parents are seated at the table, but no one is talking.
Franklin has his face in his hands.
I place a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “Do you need some pain meds?”
He removes his hands from his face. “Please.”
Dad springs to his feet. “I’ll get some. Do you need anything else, Poppy?” Dad calls over his shoulder.
“No thanks.”
“Poppy?” Franklin raises an eyebrow.
“My father has always called me Poppy. Don’t try to distract me,” I warn him. “Before I start, I’ll need to squeeze each cut so it bleeds to rid some of the poison.” His gaze meets mine when I touch his cheek. His eyes water and clench when I squeeze. “It’s like a bad pimple,” I say, trying to ease the tension.
“I rarely had a pimple growing up,” he says, deadpan.
I tap his shoulder. “Done. Lean forward while I check your back.”
Dad returns and places the medication on the table. “This should help,” he murmurs.
“Thank you, Mr. Gilbert.”
I trace my fingers over his perfectly tanned skin. Not so long ago, I admired him in other ways. His shoulders flinch. “Sorry.” I squeeze again. “There’s a thorn in that cut. I’ll need the tweezers to get it. You’re lucky there is only one thorn.”
“Lucky,” he repeats, seeming unamused.
My fingertips trail over the rest of his back. “That’s it. I’ll bathe your cuts, and it will hopefully soothe the sting.” He nods without glancing up, his elbows on his knees. After washing his back, I dab at his cheeks. His gaze flicks to mine, and for the first time, I see a vulnerable man.
“I’m going to apply some cream, and it should help with the pain.” I hold up the tube of antibiotic cream.
