She blinked up at Greyson, utterly stunned, with her heart beating so violently that she feared it might leap straight out of her chest.
His silver eyes were wide as he gazed upon her. “Hazel! Good God, are you hurt?”
He was still holding her… quite firmly, in fact. He had one arm beneath her knees, and the other braced around her back. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat was steady and grounding.
Hazel’s breath tangled somewhere in her lungs.
“I…” she tried.
He looked down at her, and his brows were drawn in genuine worry. “Are you all right? Did you hit anything? Twist anything? Sprain anything?”
“No,” she whispered, still breathless. “No, I just…”
He did not lower her. He did not even seem to realize he was still holding her. Hazel became distressingly aware of every detail: the strength in his grip, the warmth of his hands, the faint scent of cedar from his coat, the way one of her curls had fallen against his collar.
Think, Hazel. Say something sensible.
Her mind, utterly useless in this moment, offered the first ridiculous thing it could grasp.
“I have… a splinter.”
Greyson stared at her.
“A splinter,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes,” she said, feeling her cheeks burning. “From the ladder. It is quite painful.”
He looked at her hand, which she presented with great dignity for someone still being held like a fallen heroine in a gothic novel. Greyson exhaled, something between relief and disbelief, then shifted her gently, lowering her until her feet touched the ground, but he did not step away. His hand remained at her waist, steadying her.
“Let me see,” he said.
Hazel offered her palm again, mortified and entirely unable to think clearly while he was so close. He took her wrist lightly, and she was overwhelmed by the sensation of his warm fingers brushing her skin. He then proceeded to examine her hand with a seriousness utterly disproportionate to the tiny sliver lodged there.
“Ah,” he murmured. “There it is.”
Hazel could barely breathe.
Greyson had removed splinters before, and far too many, given the number of times Jasper had insisted on climbing trees well past an age when any sane man would have stopped. But he had never done it under circumstances half so…distracting.
“Come,” he said, with his pocket knife already in hand. “Sit. It will be easier.”
Hazel allowed him to lead her toward a chaise lounge near the fireplace. Her cheeks were still flushed from the fall and from being caught in his arms, though he dared not dwell on that for too long. She lowered herself onto the cushion, holding out her hand with a seriousness that would have amused him at any other time.
Greyson sat beside her, not close enough to be improper, but close enough to make coherent thought a challenge. Her proximity was… hazardous. Her scent wrapped around him the moment he settled. When she turned her head slightly toward him, a rebellious curl fell free from her chignon, slipping across her cheek.
He noticedeverything: the small, delicate freckle on her right cheekbone, near the ear; the faint dimple that appeared only when she pressed her lips together; the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly, not from fear or apprehension, but from awareness.
He forced his attention to the task.
The splinter. Nothing else.
“Try to relax your hand,” he murmured, opening the blade with a soft click. “It will not hurt.”
Hazel attempted a very stiff, very unconvincing relaxation. “I am perfectly calm.” Her voice was pitched higher than usual.
Greyson bit back a smile. “Of course.”
To distract her and perhaps himself, he asked. “What book was so important that you nearly fell to your death for it?”
