Which made me angrier. At her for being here. At myself for wanting her. At the situation that had brought her into my life in the first place.
I watched her work. A strand of hair had escaped her ponytail and fallen across her cheek. I wanted to tuck it behind her ear, feel that soft spot of skin beneath my fingertips. Beneath my mouth.
I had to shift in the chair as my jeans grew tighter.
Shit. This was worse than I thought. Five years of nothing and now this? Now her? My body had suddenly decided that enough was enough. That it was going to do something about the infernal attraction I felt whether I wanted to or not.
“It’s not as deep as I thought,” she said, breaking the silence. “The butterfly bandages should hold it if you’re careful. But Dalton, you really should get this looked at.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.” She glanced up at me, and our eyes met.
Too close. She was too close and looking at me with those brown eyes that saw too much. Nobody got to care about me. I didn’t allow it.
“Do you ever actually admit when you’re not fine?” she asked quietly.
“No.” I held her gaze, daring her to push. Hoping she wouldn’t. Hoping she would.
A small smile tugged at her lips. “At least you’re honest about that.”
She went back to work, pulling the edges of the cut together with butterfly bandages. Her fingers were steady. Confident. She’d done this before, I realized. Probably more than once.
“You’re good at this.”
She smiled at me, and it sent heat straight to my cock. Fuck. I shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have given her a compliment. Shouldn’t have acknowledged that she was good at anything because that meant I’d been paying attention.
“I had a lot of practice patching up my dad. My mother had a thing about blood, so I learned what to do at an early age.”
“Do your parents live in Billings?”
Her hands stilled for just a second. “My dad’s gone. He had a heart attack three years ago. He was fixing the roof and just... collapsed.”
“I’m sorry.” Unwelcome sympathy. I didn’t want to feel bad for her. Didn’t want to know anything about her that would make her more real. More human.
“Me too.” She placed another bandage, her touch gentle. Careful. “He would’ve liked you, I think. He appreciated stubborn men who worked too hard and didn’t know when to ask for help.”
“I asked for help.” The words came out defensive. Harsh.
“Only because you were bleeding and had no choice.” She didn’t look up, just kept working. “That’s not the same thing.”
Despite everything—the pain, the awareness of her, the way my chest felt too tight—I almost smiled.
She secured the gauze with medical tape. “There. That should hold. But you need to keep it clean and dry. Change the bandage tomorrow. And if it starts to look infected—”
“I’ll deal with it.”
She was still holding my hand. Still close enough that I could see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough that if I leaned forward just a few inches—
No. Don’t.
But my body wasn’t listening. My thumb brushed across her knuckles before I could stop myself. Just once.
Her breath caught. Her lips parted slightly.
And I knew—absolutely knew—that if I kissed her right now, she’d let me.
That knowledge was dangerous. Intoxicating.
