He doesn’t. Not immediately.
There’s a beat where the only sounds are the low thrum of music and the faint hum of the oven, and in that space, the whole room tilts.
Then, slowly, his hands ease away.
I step forward, barely a foot, but the loss of contact feels bigger. Colder.
He moves around me in three efficient strides, grabs the roll of paper towels, and drops it in front of the spill with almost military precision. “You should’ve wiped that up right away.”
And just like that, Boss Boone is back, and my temper flares in self-defense.
“I was going to,” I snap. “Right before gravity tried to murder me.”
He huffs as he crouches to blot the mess. “You have to assume anything on this floor is out to get you. We’ve had three grown men almost break their necks on muddy boot prints alone.”
I grab another wad of paper towels and drop to my knees beside him. If he thinks I’m going to stand here while he cleans up my mess like I’m some helpless damsel, he’s out of his mind.
Up close, I notice sawdust scattered on his jeans, the frayed seam at his knee, the strong curve of his fingers as he presses towels into the oil. When our hands brush, his completely dwarfs mine, and a little electric shiver shoots up my arm.
We both freeze.
His eyes flick up to mine. Blue. Dark. Focused.
Everything goes too quiet.
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” he replies.
It isn’t meant to soothe, but to state a fact he’s already filed under things he trusts about me.
Heat rushes into my cheeks.
We both look away at the same time, turning back to the floor like the oil stain is the most fascinating thing we’ve ever seen.
When the worst of it’s gone, I toss the soggy paper into the trash and push to my feet, hands braced briefly on my thighs.
Boone rises too.
He’s so close I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes.
“You should mop later.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “Romantic.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. It curls my insides.
“Didn’t realize you were expecting romance out of a near brain injury.”
“What can I say? I have high standards.”
I turn back to the stove, reaching for the pan I nearly baptized myself with, because if I don’t give my hands something to do, they’re going to attempt something very stupid.
“Everything okay?” he asks after a moment.
The question hits me sideways.
It’s not the first time he’s asked anything like that.
