I groan because really, what else can I do wrong? “I’m an accident waiting tohappen.”
“Well then, maybe you’re right because you are one accident I can’t seem to lookawayfrom.”
“Holy cheese macaroni,” Isnort.
“Holy cheese macaroni?” he repeats with laughter. “Oh God, what have I gottenmyselfinto?”
“Me,” Iretort.
“Damn straight.” I soak a cotton ball in alcohol and press it against the cut, watching the lines on the sides of his eyes deepen as he squints fromthepain.
“If you don’t shave, you won’t be able toseeit.”
He nods his head with a wicked grin. “Oh, please, I know why you’d rather I didn’t shave,”hesays.
I grab a Q-tip and squirt some Neosporin onto it. “Please enlighten me on your oddassumption.”
“I know how women prefer a little scruff for selfish reasons,” he says withconfidence.
In all honesty, I have no clue what he’s referring to, but for the sake of not making myself look like a bigger doofus at this moment, I decide to put on my fake smile and give him an, “Oh yes, I know exactly what you mean,”laugh.
“You have no idea what I’m referring to, do you?”heasks.
I place the cotton tip on his chin and smooth it over the half-inch cut. “Sure,Ido.”
“Tellme,then.”
I blow a gentle breath onto his chin, ignoring his question. He leans forward and crashes his lips into mine, pressing the thick gob of ointment onto my chin. “God, you’re hot,” he says as hepullsaway.
“Patients often fall for their caregivers.” I stand up, feeling my heart turn counterclockwise from the pain it was enduring just a few minutes ago. I pack up the first aid kit and grab a small bandage before closing up the case. Liam stands up, and I peel the wrapper off the bandage, gently placing it over his cut. “There, now you look like a seven-year-old who just fell offhisbike.”
“Perfect,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss me again. “As soon as I’m done soaking the rest of this death trap of a floor, I need to run to the grocery store. Do you needanything?”
I haven’t even found the grocery store yet. I have no clue where the time is going now that I’ve been here almost a week. “I’m okay, but thank you.” It’s on my list of things to do tomorrow. Sam told me I could help myself to whatever she has, but their organic diet is starting to gross me out, and I need some normal “me”food.
“Thanks for making me fall head over heels,” he says as I walk out of thekitchen.
“Anytime,” I holler from thelivingroom.
This is bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. I have fallen for the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and it’s going to be so much trouble. I don’t know if I need research thisbadly.
Liam’sat the grocery store, and I’m standing in the middle of the living room feeling like I should be doing more to help with tonight, but Liam has this house organization thing down to a science. I’ve never seen such a consistently clean house. A guy that hot, who also cleans . . . is this real, or am Idreaming?
Checking my watch, I notice Dylan has been upstairs playing video games for far too long, and according to the binder of notes Sam left me, overstimulation can set him off. Today would not be the right day to push that tohappen.
As I head upstairs to interrupt his fun, the doorbell rings. Weird. I don’t think the doorbell has rung once since I’ve been here. The house is sort of secluded. Even though it’s in a development, the houses are far enough apart from one another that I doubt any neighbor would be showing up at the door to borrow a cup ofsugar.
I open the door, finding a mailman standing on the doorstep. “Good morning, young lady,” an older man with a Colonel Sanders mustache and thick black rimmed glasses says while reaching into his bag. “I have a certified letter I need you to sign for.” He hands me a pile of what looks like bills first and then retrieves a small machine from his back pocket, holding it out for metosign.
Giving it a quick scribble, he hands me a white envelope in return. “Thank you,” Itellhim.
“Have a good day now,”hesays.
“You too.” I close the door and glance at the certified letter, finding it addressedtoLiam.
Immediately, I place the letter down, not wanting to pry or even ponder what could be inside of a certified letter for him. We’re just fooling around. I have no business knowing his personal secrets. Just walk away, and no one willgethurt.
Yet, I’m staring at the envelope as if I have the power to make it float from the table into my hand. What if he’s being summoned to court? Or worse, what if he’s a criminal? Would that be in a certified letter? Obviously, whatever is inside is important enough that it needs to besignedfor.
