His gaze flickers as it hovers on my lips, then lifts to meet mine. I almost sense a crackling between us, then realize at this rate, I’m likely to start a fire without a match, so I look away.
But that doesn’t stop the warmth from kindling in my belly, waking up the heart fluffies and sending a zing through me.
“I can do it.” I cover my mouth so he can’t see the damage.
“Remember, I’m a professional.”
“A doctor?”
“A football player. I’ve seen my share of fat lips.”
“Is it fat?” I ask, aghast.
“I don’t know. You won’t let me see.”
I drop my hand and have the distinct sensation that my lower lip is more than bee-stung.
“Okay, what do we have here?” His voice is low, rougher than that of a professional.
I suck in a breath as he shifts toward my mouth to get a good look. Forgetting about my bloody wound, up close, I can’t help but think about how he was irrefutably cute in high school but filled out into a strongly built super-stud that makes my knees weak—thankfully, I’m sitting down—and my skin flush.
He dabs my lip with cold liquid on a cotton ball.
It stings slightly, but what’s got me is his proximity. His strong presence—same as during dinner and dancing at the Smythe’s soiree. I did everything I could to keep from bumping into him while we ate. To keep my distance from him while we danced.
But it was as losing a battle then as it is now.
I wave my hand in front of my face. “Is it getting hot in here?”
He flashes his flirty, cocky, dimpled smile as though he knows the effect he’s having on me.
I go still and focus my gaze on an impressionist painting of a lumpy old man in a waistcoat on the wall behind Chase.
But his scent fills up my nose with soap and man and something I’m so close to identifying, I can almost taste it.
But that doesn’t do the trick.
I’m deeply aware of how close Chase is to my mouth. His lips are just the right size—not too big. Not too small. Just right for kissing. Thankfully, I didn’t say that out loud.
Satisfied that my lip is clean and sterilized, Chase rifles through the med kit. His expression has turned to focused care.
Of me.
His hand cups my jaw as he angles my mouth exactly where he wants it. Then he fusses with something and his fingers brush my chin, my cheek, and my upper lip as he tends to the lower.
My heart takes off at a gallop, running willy-nilly around the room, out the door, and down the hall. I want to warn it about the vacuum. How did I manage to get through the dance when Chase held my hand? The answer comes quickly and in three parts.
1. Our meeting was a surprise. A shock. I never expected to see him again in real life. (Watching football games doesn’t count.)
2. I was wrapped up in fantasies the night before and not aware of the fact that I would be his coach.
3. Now, we’re forced to be together for an entire month. There’ll be no avoiding him or my feelings.
“Okay, all stitched up.”
“Stitches?”
“No. It’s a special kind of bandage. Just don’t get into any fights with vacuum cleaners or me.” He throws a few punches in the air.
