I clutch my left index finger in my right hand before pulling it to my chest, proceeding to bleed all over his shirt.
‘Come here,’ Greg says, prying my hand away from my injured fingers. ‘Let me have a look.’
‘I don’t want to see it,’ I cry out, turning my head away.
‘I said letmesee, not you. I take it you’re afraid of blood?’
‘Whatever made you think that,’ I reply, my voice thin and reedy. ‘Anyway, I’m only afraid when it’s no longer under my skin.’
Greg chuckles, and seemingly done with examining it, he decrees I’m not going to die of blood loss. ‘I don’t have a first-aid kit, so you’ll have to make do with a cloth. And I don’t think you’re going to be chopping chocolate anytime soon,’ he says, turning away still holding my finger upright between his as he opens a drawer, probably looking for a clean cloth.
‘Is it that bad?’ I close my eyes as a wave of nausea sweeps through me. Is it bleeding so profusely that I need a whole towel to stem the blood? What happens if I need sutures? I don’t want to bleed to death.
And all of a sudden, I’m aware my free hand seems to have moved by its own volition and is currently unbuttoning Greg’s shirt.Well, the one I’m wearing, anyway. And because my eyes are closed, and my head is turned, I can’t tell what Greg is doing. But I know what he’s not doing anymore, and that’s rummaging through the drawer.
As I begin to wriggle my arm and shoulder from the right-hand sleeve, Greg’s calloused fingertips brush my shoulder as he helps. It’s left dangling from my left wrist for a beat before I pull my hand from Greg’s and wrap it around the digit. ‘There,’ I announce on a deep breath. ‘I can’t see it now.’
‘While I appreciate the whole striptease, it’s only a wee cut. It just needed to be held up and tight for a bit.’
‘Well, now I can’t see, so it doesn’t matter if it’s bleeding or not. Don’t judge, we can’t help the things we’re afraid of.’ His smile is slow to grow and, thankfully, genuine. ‘Even the ridiculous things,’ I add in a small voice. I continue to stare at the top of my bundled-up finger almost sure I can see a seepage of blood when Greg hooks one of his own under my chin.
‘It’s fine,’ he states calmly, though his mouth quirks as if experiencing pain or discomfort as he sweeps his thumbs under my eyelids.
‘It’s because it hurts,’ I qualify as his thumbs come away wet. My statement could mean anything, I suppose. ‘I’m not crying because I’m upset.’
Oops. There goes my Pinocchio nose.
I bite the inside of my mouth against speaking again because I know those words will be a sobbing mess without making any sense. I’m so sad I must’ve hurt him with my thoughtless words. He doesn’t answer, though right now a bawdy quip might detract from what I’m about to do. But some things you just can’t help—even prickly, awkward people like me have their breaking point. I throw my arms around his waist, making him stumble as I bury my face in the soft cotton of his shirt.
‘I’m sorry.’ Sure, the words are muffled, but I don’t think I’m hiding how sorry I am as my tears wet his shirt. His arms slide around my back, holding me tighter as though I’m the one who needs comforting. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ As his hand pushes the hair from my face, I realise that’s exactly the case—he’s the one comforting me.
Who would give up a man like this?
A man who puts aside his own hurt to comfort the transgressor?
‘But I do. And I am.’ Sorry for my behaviour but just so sorry for him. ‘You must think I’m so self-absorbed. I should’ve realised you didn’t want to talk about it.’
Greg’s arms fall away, but before I can add another pathetic apology, he takes my face in his hands. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. I mean it,’ he adds, cutting me off as I open my mouth to speak again. ‘It was all a long time ago.’
‘Okay.’ As far as answers go, that was a pretty poor one. But it was the one he most wanted to hear, judging by the way his expression eases.God, he so doesn’t look forty -three. I wonder what his facial regimen is like?
‘What were your plans here?’ I feel the loss of his presence immediately as he moves to the chopping board to examine my handiwork. ‘Were you trying to slice or dice this?’ he asks, picking through something that looks a bit like chocolate shrapnel.
‘I was just aiming for ... chopped. I wasn’t going for any particular cut.’ My response is a little defensive as I wrap the shirt tighter around my finger until it resembles a stick of cotton candy.
‘You could’ve attacked the dishes,’ he says with a smile. ‘Why the chocolate?’
‘There was no dessert.’
‘Ah, I see. Your stomach talking to you again.’ I pull a face, then stick my tongue out at him. On the inside, I’m just happy we’ve been able to return to this place of banter and friendly sniping. ‘Any idea what you were making?’
‘I thought I’d give making boozy hot chocolate a go.’
‘Ah, right.’ His smile seems uneasy though there’s a teasing light in his eyes. ‘The drink that’s almost as good as an orgasm.’
‘Almost.’
