“I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“Overreact much?” I vent a trembling laugh. “I can’t be in a hospital waiting room right now. I’d lose my mind sitting there trying to act normal after what just happened. We can get some stuff from a drugstore. I’ll have to go in and buy it, since you don’t have shoes. How are your feet?”
“Healing.” He grimaces and starts the car. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
It’s a twenty-minute drive to get off Hunting Island and into the town of Beaufort. By then, I’m shaking and I can’t stop, no matter how hard I try.
Dorian swerves into the parking lot of a Walgreens. The instant the car is in park, he turns to me, picking up my wrist and feeling for my pulse. “It’s a little fast. You could be going into shock.” He reachesover and presses the button to tilt my seat until I’m basically lying flat on my back. “I should call you an ambulance.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Then you lie here and try to breathe slowly. I’ll be back in a minute. Stay in the car, Baz. I mean it.”
“You can’t go in there. You don’t have shoes or a shirt,” I protest.
“Nothing money and a smile can’t fix.” He slams the car door and jogs into the building.
He’s back in a handful of minutes with a plastic bag of stuff, flip-flops on his feet, and a flower-print blanket, which he tucks carefully around me. “We’re going somewhere safe where I can fix those burns for you and get you warm. Stay with me, all right?”
“I’m honestly fine,” I tell him. “Just shaky and a little cold. Stop acting like I’m going to pass out or die.”
I’m scoffing, but then I look at his face—the part I can see from my recumbent position. His jaw is tight, a muscle flexing at his temple. His fingers clutch the steering wheel, muscles rigid in his forearms.
“Dorian.” I tip the seat up a little. “I’m really okay.”
He doesn’t answer, just turns into the parking lot of a nearby motel. The place is packed, and I’m almost certain we won’t get a room, but Dorian comes out with a pair of key cards. He grabs the beach bag and the sack of drugstore supplies, then takes my overnight bag out of the trunk. Lucky I had it along after my sleepover at Lloyd’s penthouse.
Minutes later, Dorian is shouldering his way into the motel room with the bags while I follow, holding my flower-print blanket around my shoulders. My burns hurt, but fortunately the injuries are all on the backs of my hands.
The heavy door to the room swings shut behind me with a satisfying click, and I exhale. Tension eases from my shoulders.
The room smells faintly of bleach, but it looks clean enough. I hesitate, eyeing the one king-size bed.
“They didn’t have any more rooms with two beds,” Dorian says. “I figure we can take care of your burns, let you rest a bit, then head back to Lloyd’s if you want.”
“Or we can stay the night,” I say. “There’s plenty of room for both of us. Do you snore?”
He smiles. “I have excellent sinus health. If I do snore, it’s rare.”
“Perfect. Nightmares?”
His smile drops immediately, and he turns away, setting the bags on top of the bureau. “Of course not. Only people with guilt or anxiety have nightmares, and I push all that away, remember?”
“Hmm. Right.”
“Come here, little fighter.” He beckons me into the bathroom and flips on the harsh white light. “Give me your hands.”
He rinses my hands, then applies the gel he got at the pharmacy. Gently, he places bandages over the injuries, using smaller ones for a couple little burns on my fingers.
It’s new for me, seeing him like this. Sure, the rings on his fingers look priceless and I’m pretty sure the stud in his ear is a real diamond. But he smells like the beach, like sweat and sand and the salty air of the ocean, with a lingering odor of paint. He smells like a regular guy, and as he bends over my hands, his blond hair flops over his forehead in the most ridiculously charming way.
“We should have done this after I showered,” I say. “I’m still kind of sandy, and my shorts are wet.”
“Damn it. I didn’t think of that.” He puckers his lips, staring ruefully at my newly bandaged hands. “I guess I’ll have to redo all that after you clean up. Or…I could help you shower.”
A storm of moths erupts in my chest, wings catching on my lungs, making my breath stutter.
Dorian lifts his blue eyes to mine. “It’s practical, Baz,” he says softly. “Nothing sexual about it. Just a friend helping another friend get comfortable.”
