I bet he was fine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I did it again, watching blood pool and stream out, swirling in the empty, metal sink, the water diluting the red.
Dallas let out a low groan deep in his throat again.
“I’m so sorry, but I need to do it again.”
“No, it’s—” That third time I did it, he cleared his throat, and I couldn’t help but cluck my tongue to keep from grinning as I stopped what I was doing and let the cut sit under the faucet for a second before adding a drop of hand soap and dabbing it around the wound, rinsing it off as gently as I could. He cleared his throat once more, and that time I couldn’t help but glance up at him. His face was maybe three inches away; his arm pulled so far away from his body it was like I was forcing him to hug me around one side. Up close, I could see the lines at his eyes clearly and his sun-weathered face perfectly. How old was he exactly?
“Are you laughing at me?” he asked in a low voice as I reached to turn off the water and grab a paper towel afterward.
I didn’t even try to bullshit him. “I told you it was going to hurt,” I explained as I dabbed at the skin around his poor thumb, trying to dry it. “You have thick calluses.” I glanced up at him one more time. His gaze was on his hand, thankfully. “Are you a mechanic like Trip?” I doubted it since I’d seen the ladder and other tools on the back of his truck before.
Those hazel eyes flicked in my direction, so close I could see the golden ring around the pupil. I turned back to his hand. His voice was gruff. “No. I do home renovation jobs. Painting and flooring mostly.”
That explained the paint-stained clothes I’d seen him in. “That’s nice. On your own?”
“Mostly,” he groaned low as I touched the top of his cut.
“You don’t ever accidentally hurt yourself on the job?”
“No. I know what I’m doing.” Someone sounded insulted.
Dropping my gaze to look back at his hand, I let out a snort. “Not around sharp objects by the look of it. Hold on for a second so I can put a Band-Aid on you.”
“I don’t need a Band-Aid,” he tried to argue in that husky voice of his as I let go of him. The sound of the handheld vacuum turning on in the living room had us both glancing in that direction.
“You need one,” I insisted, even as I reached into one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out one of the many small first aid kits I had hidden around the house in case of emergencies. “You’re still bleeding. At least leave it on for today, please? I feel really bad. I knew I should have moved that glass earlier and I didn’t.”
His sigh was long, and he was giving me a flat look with that not-so-plain face when I glanced at him. Someone was not amused by my request. “Sure” was the word that came out of his mouth reluctantly, but his face said a different word completely.
Not wanting to waste any time before he changed his mind, I went up to him. He was so tall the bottom of his butt was pressed to the counter. I set the kit aside and pulled out a jar of honey from one of the cabinets. If Dallas thought it was strange that I was bringing it out and opening it, he didn’t say a word.
His fingertipswerereally rough and callused as I flipped my palm up to hold his hand in place. His fingers stretched out past the tops of my own. His hand was so much wider and almost as tan as mine; you could barely see my hand beneath his. Giving him a quick, reassuring smile that wasn’t exactly returned, I scooped out a drop of honey and set it on his cut with the tip of the butter knife I’d used, still holding him steady.
“Louie’s allergic to first aid cream. He gets a rash and blisters from it, so I don’t bother buying it anymore,” I explained. With a skill I’d picked up after taking care of so many of the boys’ cuts, I unpeeled the paper off the bandage with one hand and carefully wrapped it around his thumb, the pad of my thumb brushing against the side of his injured one, my other fingers dancing across his hard skin.
His question came out of the blue. “What happened to your finger?”
I blinked and glanced at my own hands. It took me a second to find the finger he was talking about, and I flexed it. There was a ragged line about a half-inch long on the index finger of my left hand from where I’d cut myself with my shears during a haircut two days ago. “I cut it at work.” And it had bled like a bitch.
“What did you put on it?” he asked, obviously taking in the goopy line along the seam of the wound.
“Super glue. It works like a charm, but yours isn’t deep enough to need it,” I explained, my attention downward. “I’m really sorry about your cut.”
“It was an accident,” he replied, sounding really close to me.
That had me lifting my head, grimacing. “Still, I’m sorry.”
Those hazel eyes were even and steady on my boring brown ones. He was probably six inches away from me, tops. He drew his hand away from mine and took a step back. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
The smile I gave him was so tight it made my cheeks ache. “All right. If you insist.” I tilted my head toward the stove. Sometimes friendships were built on baby steps, weren’t they? He could have said he didn’t want to come over when Trip invited him, and he could have pretended he didn’t have an Xbox for Louie to play on. He was trying, and I damn well was, too. I could do this. “How do you want your steak cooked? Burnt, perfect, or pink?”
His mouth twisted to the corner as he blinked. “Burnt.”
“Burnt it is,” I said, turning to face the stove.
There was a moment of silence before he asked, “We good?”
