He doesn’t answer, just dips the cloth in the water again, and wrings it out before once more smoothing it over my leg. “See? Now that it’s cleaned up, it’s not as bad as it looked.”
I tear my gaze away from him and look down at my thigh, expecting to see the bloody wound, but he’s right. It looks much better now that it’s cleaned up.
“What do you think? In your professional opinion, do you think it needs stitches?”
I’m taken off guard by the lightness in his voice, and the flash of humor in his eye. “No.” I shake my head. “I think I’ll live.”
He blows out a breath and chuckles under his breath. “Well, that’s a relief.”
I don’t have time to react to the sharp shift in his attitude. This new, lighter version of Wyatt. Because he picks up the bottle of antiseptic. The sharp scent fills the air moments before he applies it. I suck in a breath and try not to wince from the sting.
Wyatt’s gaze snaps up, reaching mine. For a second, the room narrows, and everything else fades away. It’s just his eyes on mine, holding me in the moment. The warmth of his strong hand on my leg. Our breath mingling in the stillness.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice rougher than before. “I should’ve picked up that wire. It never should have?—”
“It’s not your fault.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But you got hurt on my land. That’s on me.”
The words land heavily, and I don’t know what to say. He presses a gauze pad over the wound. His thumb drifts, barely grazing the inside of my thigh before he pulls back like he’s touched fire.
I can hear the tick of a clock over the sink, the rasp of his breath and my own heartbeat pounding too loud in my ears.
“There,” he says at last. “That should keep it clean.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He stands, towering over me as I still recline on the table. He’s close enough that I can smell the manliness of him. Soap,sweat and leather. The kind of scent that makes my pulse trip all over again.
It takes me a moment to realize that I’m still half naked on his table. It’s hardly professional or appropriate. Especially considering the way my body is betraying me.
I push up and wiggle to the edge of the table. He offers me a hand as I jump to my feet and reach for my jeans.
I have both legs in and I’m easing the fabric over my thighs when I finally trust myself to speak again.
“Wyatt?”
He turns from the sink and looks at me. “Yeah?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you earlier,” I say quickly. “About what the people in town are saying. It’s just that?—”
“People are going to talk,” he stops me. His jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “Can’t change that. Especially when they got reason to talk.”
“I know. But I can see what you’re doing here,” I continue. “You care about this place. It shows.”
Something darkens momentarily in his expression before his gaze slides over me, landing on the bandage peeking out of the rip in my jeans. “You should keep an eye on that,” he says before looking away. “Make sure it doesn’t get infected. If you need stitches, I can take you?—”
“I’ll be fine.” I reach for my jeans. “But thank you. Thanks for…well, for everything.”
He nods, hands sliding into my pockets, knuckles white like he’s working hard to hold himself together. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, the sun is starting to set and the cold evening air shocks the heat out of my face, but not my skin. Wyatt’s hand stays at my elbow, steady and protective as we cross the yard as if he’s worried I’ll trip again.
At my truck, I turn to him. “You’ll call if Oatmeal goes into labor?”
I see him hesitate. He’s going to tell me it’s fine and he knows what he’s doing. And I’m sure it is. I have no doubt that he knows what he’s doing.
Still.
