“Let me see,” he whispers.
He gives me no chance to protest, crouching down beside my chair.His fingers close carefully around my wrist, avoiding the reddened skin.He lifts my hand from my lap, bringing his intense green eyes level with mine as he examines the burn.
It throbs and stings, looking an angry pink.
He lays the damp, cool towel across my knuckles and fingers.The relief is instant, a blessed cold balm against the fire.He holds the cloth there lightly with one hand, his thumb resting just above my wrist like it’s tracking my pulse.
He’s so close.
Close enough that I can see the intricate knot of his silk tie… the individual strands of his styled hair…
Close enough to smell the crisp scent of his cologne and laundered shirt…
I stare down at the dark crown of his bent head, my breathing shallow, caught in the suspended quiet.
When he finally looks up, the full force of his gaze hits me, stealing the breath from my lungs.
“Are you alright?”he asks in a gravelly whisper.
All I can manage is a quick nod, biting my lower lip against the swirl of potent emotions.
His expression falters, softening for the barest moment before the mask of neutrality resettles.He returns his attention to my hand, assessing the burn with a focused detachment that feels worlds away from the man I was just with last night.
The stinging has definitely eased, leaving only a dull throb.
Refolding the damp towel into a neat pad, he lays it lightly over the burn.He releases my wrist, but his fingers trail over mine for a fraction of a second too long.
A faint echo of that wildfire sparks through me.
Then he rises smoothly to his full height and takes a small, deliberate step back from the table.
A boundary.
He’s putting it back in place between us.
“Keep that on for a bit,” he says with a brief nod at my hand.
Returning to the counter, he gets two fresh mugs and fills them with coffee.The rich aroma, which I’ve always found comforting, now makes my stomach churn.
Matthew carries the steaming mugs back to the table.He places one in front of me and sets his own on the opposite side before sitting down.
“That should be cleaned up,” I mutter to my lap, unable to meet his gaze.“It’ll stain.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he dismisses.He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the styled perfection, before settling around his mug.
His eyes find mine again, the guardedness locking back into place.“Amy,” he begins.The single word, spoken in that controlled tone, holds all the weight of the conversation he insisted upon.“Last night…” He pauses, seeming to choose his next words with deliberate care.
“I-I should get to the café.”I fill the silence quickly, my words sounding weak.“Helen will lose it if I’m not there for the morning rush.”
He doesn’t reply right away.He just sits there, pinning me with his gaze, his expression blank.
The silence stretches thin and taut until it feels like it might snap.
“Sorry about last night.I completely lost it,” he says finally, flatly.His eyes fix on some point across the room.“I shouldn’t have…” He trails off.
Panic rises, blocking my throat.
He regrets it.
