“Famous last words.” He smiles as he sits way too close to me on the couch.
I reach for his hand.
“You aren’t going to put on gloves?”
“Do I need to?”
He tips his head to the side.
“Max, I trust you to tell me if I need to put on gloves.” That was thoughtless, but digging out gloves from somewhere in the back of a closet where I threw them five years ago hardly seems worth the effort.
“You don’t need them.”
His all too soft voice sends a shiver down my spine…That felt too intimate.
Focus on the job at hand, not on silly, meaningless physical reactions. I hold out my hand, and he sets his large one on it.
The size difference is marked. His meaty fingers make mine look practically dainty. Carefully, I unwrap his hand.
A gasp escapes my lips as all the bleeding and discoloration comes into view. Those have to hurt. How can he even move them?
“Fea.”
I glance up at his face.
“Don’t cry.”
I never cry. They tortured all the tears out of me when I was…My hip itches. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t cry.”
How? How is that possible?
Don’t think about it.
You have a job to do.
“If this is too hard for you, I can walk over to the clinic.”
“It isn’t. I do it all the time.”
He glances over at the box and then back at me. “Your basket makes Mom’s stock in the house seem almost reasonable. Why do you do this all the time?”
Think of something. Anything. You need a reasonable lie. Something believable. Or at least halfway believable.
“You searching that pretty little head of yours for a lie?”
Obviously, I’m not doing it well. Oh well. The truth will have to do. “Yes.”
“Just tell me you’re not ready to share that with me. I’d prefer that to a lie.”
“I’m not ready to share that with you.” And I won’t ever be.
He reaches up and brushes a finger across my cheek. “Thank you.”
I forget to breathe.
Max leans forward until our heads are almost touching.
The world closes in until only Max and I exist in it, and even our breathing syncs up.
