I don’t realize just how heavy my sigh is until he looks back up at me. “I’m sorry my magically moving furniture hurt you.”
“Oh no, it’s not that. It’s just…”
What are you doing? Shut your mouth right this second, Beatrice Walsh.
“Just what?” he asks, still holding onto my poor foot.
“Just…um…nothing. Just nothing.”
His eyes narrow as he holds mine, as if he looks long enough, the answer he wants will emerge within them.
“Okay,” he finally states. “I’m going to clean this up.”
He releases my foot and stands back to full height, giving me another full shot of his insane body.
“N-no, it’s okay. I can sort myself out. You go back to bed.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he explains as he walks toward the side of the apartment I’m yet to explore.
He disappears for a few seconds before he emerges with an impressively large first-aid kit.
“Whoa, that’s a big one.”
The most wicked smirk curls at his lips.
“That’s what they all say,” he quips before winking at me. “But you already know all about that, don’t you?”
I pretend to think for a moment. “I can’t really remember.”
His smirk grows. He knows damn well I’m lying, and I curse myself for being so readable.
“If you say so. It’s a damn shame, if you ask me,” he mocks as he flips the kit open. “It was a good night. The best, actually,” he adds while rummaging for something.
“So I rate quite highly on your long list of conquests. Can’t lie, I’m shocked. Some of the women you’ve been seen with?—”
“You’re more than every single one of them,” he states, looking up and directly into my eyes.
My breath catches at the honesty in his. “Oh?” I breathe.
Finally, he finds what he’s looking for and lifts the antibacterial wipe packet to his mouth and rips it open, much like he did the condom that night.
My fingers curl around the edge of the counter as I fight to keep my whimper locked down. I can’t stop my thighs from clenching, though. All I can hope is that he’s too distracted with providing me medical attention to notice.
With the wipe in hand, he drops to his knees.
“This is probably going to hurt.”
“Good practice for childbirth then,” I quip, before hissing through my teeth when he presses it against my busted toe.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I force out as the sting begins to subside.
“How did you make this much mess from just kicking the island?”
I shrug, because I don’t think he’s actually expecting a response.
I watch, enthralled as he cleans me up. I’ve managed to split the skin on my knuckle, but I can still wiggle it, so I don’t think I’ve broken anything. Not that there is much we could do if I had, Everett reluctantly tells me. Considering what he does for a living and the number of injuries he must sustain, I take his word for it and allow him to wrap my poor toe in a Band-Aid.
