“You all right?” Trip asked, reminding me he was in the room.
I nodded at him, distracted and sad at the same time. “Yeah, I just…” I forced myself to clear my throat. “I just remembered his dad, is all. Does he have kids?” I forced myself to ask, not able to explain what had gotten me so upset in more detail. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d somehow found out that the boys weren’t my biological kids or not, but I didn’t want to bring it up right then.
“Dallas?”
“Uh-huh.”
Trip shook his head, his mouth going firm for the first time since I’d met him. “No.” He took a swig of his beer and stayed quiet for a moment. “Why, you interested?”
“No.” God, why did everyone seem to think I was trying to—
“I’m fuckin’ with you.”
I got mad all over again, remembering Dallas admitting he thought I was flirting with him all because of somepolvoronesand a few phone calls. My panties needed to get out of the wad they were in and remember he’d realized how stupid he’d been. Because he’d been real stupid to think that.
“Don’t take it personal, honey. His ex, or soon-to-be ex, whatever the fuck she is now, did a real number on him. It doesn’t have nothin’ to do with you,” he explained.
I was being sarcastic when I asked, “What? She was a single parent too?”
“Uh, yeah, she was,” was the remark that suddenly had me feeling like a giant schmuck. Shit. I guess I couldn’t blame him for being hesitant with me. “Don’t worry about it though. He knows he ‘isn’t your type.’” He chuckled at that last bit, and I frowned. “You actually got a type?”
“Yeah, from the sound of it, I do now,” I said, facing the cast iron skillet popping on the stove once more. “High school virgins.”
Trip and I laughed so hard it filled the time until Dallas and Louie came back with two plastic grocery bags filled with a console, two controllers, and multiple games. I hadn’t bothered ordering Josh and his friends pizza yet. The last time I had checked, the cupboard’s two bags of chips, one container of cookies, and six sodas had already gone missing. I could force food on them later. Trip disappeared into the living room as I finished cooking the first two steaks.
While I kept an eye on the meat and checked the potatoes in the oven, I thought about Dallas and his single-mom-ex for all of a second before starting a mental list of what I needed to get done before Josh’s official birthday party. I was in the middle of flipping the steaks again when I heard the distinct sound of glass shattering from the living room.
“I’m sorry!” That was Louie.
The response was so low I couldn’t hear it. I flipped the flame off the stove, ready to go and make sure everything was okay. I’d barely turned around when Trip appeared in the kitchen. “Louie’s all right, but you got a vacuum or something? There was a glass cup on the coffee table…”
And it got knocked over.
Reaching under the sink, I pulled out the little handheld vacuum my parents had bought me years ago and started toward Trip, but Dallas appeared behind him, his attention focused downward. It wasn’t until he shouldered past the blond man that I saw his hands. They were cupped together and in them were shards of glass along with a decent amount of blood pooling in those wide palms.
“I got it,” Trip said, taking the vacuum from me as I watched Dallas make his way toward the trash can.
“Jesus Christ. Let me see your hand.” I went after him.
“I’m all right. It’s only a cut,” he answered with his back to me.
“There’s blood all over you. You’re not all right.” I stopped right behind him, too close when he turned around to face me, one hand still holding the other.
“I’m fine,” the stubborn-ass insisted. “I tried to save it, but it shattered in my hand.”
Maybe he was fine and maybe he’d had a lot worse in his life, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Let me see it. I promise I won’t stick my hand down your pants,” I told him, only half joking.
The look he gave me almost made me feel like I was getting called to the principal’s office, but I didn’t take my words back or refocus my gaze. That was what he got for thinking something so stupid about me. He must have understood, because he didn’t say a word.
Without asking for his permission, I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and pulled him toward the sink.
He let me.
When I shoved his hand under the tap, him standing slightly behind my side at an angle, he still didn’t move or say a word as the cold water hit his wound. I hovered my face over the cut that sliced around the front of his thumb. “Let me make sure there’s no glass in there,” I offered. “It might hurt.”
“I’m fi—“ He groaned and grunted as I pressed on the sides of the wound and pinched them together.
