I slap my hands over my mouth and shake my head, unable to form words, hell, not even a syllable is coming out.
“It’s sweet. What did you put in it?”
I crush my eyes shut as Sofie’s and Noelle’s comments scream in my head.
“Come on,Doc, tell me your secret ingredient.” He lifts it again, and I somehow manage to unfreeze.
I reach forward and snatch it out of his hand, his brow arches, and then his freaking deep brown eyes drift to the other glass. If there were a poster man-child for menace, his face right now would be it.
I reach to snatch it away at the same time as he grabs it, and gets it first.
“Do not drink that, it’s… it’s… it’s. Just don’t.”
And what does he do? He shoots it back like a frat boy.
“Now you have to tell me the secret ingredient so that,” he closes one eye, groans, and lets his head hang down, and finishes his sentence. “I can make more.”
There is dried blood on the back of his head. “Your head hurts.”
“It’s been worse.”
“Yeah, well,” I nod to the bathroom. “I’m going to guess no one has even looked at it, let alone cleaned it up.”
He grins — that lazy, crooked grin that makes him look both infuriating and unfairly attractive. “You volunteering,Doc?”
“I’m making sure you don’t bleed all over Nalani’s floor,” I mutter, grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink. “Come on, before that thing gets infected.”
He follows, ducking into the narrow bathroom, the scent of soap and cedar following him. He sits on the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees, head bent so I can reach the back of his scalp.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” I say, inspecting the gash. “Could possibly use a stitch or two, but you’ll live.”
“Didn’t doubt it,” he says, that smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
I soak a cloth, place it on his head, clean him up a bit, then use another with antiseptic and press it gently against the cut. He flinches, breath hissing through his teeth.
“Yeah, it burns,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “That’s how you know it’s getting disinfected.”
“Thought you shrinks were supposed to be nurturing.”
“I’m a psychologist, not a preschool teacher.”
He laughs, a deep sound that fills the tiny space. “Fair point. Though youdomake warm milk.”
I freeze mid-motion, cloth still in hand. “We’re really doing this now?”
He glances up, eyes bright with mischief. “I said I needed to know the secret ingredient.”
“I said youshouldn’tdrink it.”
“And yet I did.” He holds up two fingers. “Twice.” I exhale, long and slow, pressing the cloth against his wound a little harder than necessary. He winces. “Ow.”
“Serves you right,” I mutter. Then, after a beat, tell him, “It’s breast milk.”
His head jerks up, and for the first time tonight, Deacon Moretti looksutterlystunned. “You’re joking.”
I cross my arms. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
He blinks once. Twice. Then his lips twitch. “Well,” he says, leaning back a little, “I did say it was sweet.”
