I moved without thinking, closing the distance between us. "Let me help."
"I don't need?—"
"Humor me."
She let out a frustrated huff, but she didn't argue. I braced one hand on the wall next to her and reached for her waist with the other, my fingers settling against warm skin where her sweater had ridden up. She stiffened.
"Easy," I said, keeping my voice low. "On three. One, two?—"
I lifted, and she pushed, and between the two of us she slid through the window in an awkward tumble that ended with her landing hard on the floor inside. I heard the impact, followed by another curse.
"Are you okay?"
"Just peachy."
She was still full of that sass that used to get her in trouble back in high school. I bit back a smile and moved toward the front door. It took her a few seconds to get there, and when she unlocked it from the inside and pulled, the door didn't budge.
"It's stuck," she said, sounding defeated. "I tried earlier. That's why I used the window."
"Step back."
She did, and I put my shoulder into it. The door gave with a groan and a shower of paint flakes, swinging inward to reveal the dark hallway beyond. Claire stood just inside, cradling her injured hand against her chest, and I got my first good look at her in years.
Damn, she was beautiful.
Not the kind of beautiful I’d seen on magazine covers, but the kind that burrowed into my chest and stayed there. I wanted to run my hands over her soft curves and pull her into me. She looked tired, the bone-deep kind, but there was a stubborn set to her jaw that I remembered from when she was younger.
"You're bleeding on the floor," I said.
She glanced down at the dark spots on the hardwood. "I'll clean it up."
"After I bandage that hand."
"You don’t need to?—"
"I've got a first aid kit in the truck. Let me grab it, it won't take long."
Her jaw tensed, but she didn't argue. I took that as permission and headed back outside, grabbing the first-aid kit from the cab and returning to find her standing in the same spot, still holding her hand like she could will it to stop bleeding through sheer stubbornness.
"Kitchen?" I asked.
"This way."
She led me down the hallway, flicking on lights as she went. The house smelled like dust and old wood and something faintly citrusy. Maybe it was lemon oil her Aunt Lois used to polish the woodwork. The kitchen was cold and Claire moved to the sink.
I set the kit on the counter and turned on the tap, testing the temperature before nodding toward the stream of water. "Rinse it first."
She obeyed, wincing as the water hit the cut. It wasn't deep, but it was a nice, clean slice across her palm that would need cleaning and wrapping. I pulled out gauze, antiseptic, and tape, laying them out in a neat row while she dried her hand on a dish towel that had seen better days.
"Now, sit."
"I can do this myself."
"I know you can."
That stopped her. She looked at me, something unreadable flickering across her face, and then she sat.
I pulled a chair close and took her hand in mine, palm up. Her skin was soft, warmer than I expected, and I had to force myself to focus on the injury instead of the way her fingers curled slightly against my wrist.
