In fact, he’d do her one better. Even though he’d planned to take a full lunch break, there was a stack of paperwork on his desk waiting to be done.
He nodded at the waitress behind the counter. “Can I get a souvlaki plate to go, please?”
“Sure thing.”
He grabbed a newspaper someone folded up and left on the counter. He could read headlines while his food was prepped. He had no reason to turn around. No reason to look in her direction, no danger of making awkward small talk that made him look like an idiot.
So when Kerry crept up on him, and put her hand on his arm, he didn’t see it coming. So he leapt in the air, twisted around, and brought his hand crashing down onto the counter—eventually. First his hand went through a ceramic mug.
And part of the mug went through his hand.
“God damn it,” he groaned as blood spilled fast and furious over the Formica countertop.
“Don’t move,” Kerry whispered. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, just as shocked as he was, but she immediately took control, grabbing a stack of napkins and clamping them down and around his injury.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Kerry took a deep breath. “This is a bit outside my wheelhouse. But I want to look at it, okay?”
“It’s fine,” he said reflexively.
“Uh huh.”
He hoped it was fine. But the napkins were wet and red.Blood spreads like any other liquid. And yet that knowledge didn’t help him when he was the patient. He looked away from his hand, away from Kerry, and focused on a point on the wall.
The waitress was beside them now, asking what she could do to help.
“Can you get me some clean towels? Something more absorbent than these,” Kerry said. The other woman pulled a stack from somewhere behind the counter. Kerry grabbed one and wrapped it around his hand tightly. Then she waited.
Owen could feel the swelling starting already. His hand hurt like a sonofabitch, but he could feel all his fingers, he was pretty sure. In a second, he’d look for the pieces of the mug and figure out how much of it was inside his hand.
God damn it.
“The bleeding is slowing down,” she said. “Can you put pressure on this for a minute? I want to wash my hands.”
The waitress squeaked in protest, clearly not wanting to get involved in the first aid directly, and Owen shook his head. “I can hold.”
“You sure?” Kerry’s face was tight with concern.
“Yeah.” He replaced her touch, carefully avoiding the spot where he could feel a jagged piece of china stuck in his skin, and then stared at the spot on the wall again until she returned, her hands held high like a surgeon waiting to be gloved.
This was the exact opposite of a sterile operating suite, but he appreciated her efforts. She gestured for him to move his hand, and she carefully lifted the towel.
“Motherforker,” she whispered.
“Do you always do that?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Do what?” She was still examining his hand.
“Swear like a kindergarten teacher?”
She laughed. “Yeah. I guess so. Pregnant women are often in the presence of little people who will repeat any curse word that slips out.”
“And you’re aGood Placefan.”
“That too.” She bit her lower lip as she returned the towel. “I think you might need stitches. Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?”
“I don’t need stitches.”
