“Are weddings that dangerous?”
“You have no idea,” she says, pointing towards a long thin line down her shin. “See this scar? The maid of honor pushed me into a door because she wanted to be the one to hold the bride’s train even though I assured her I got it. Had to have six stitches. But I didn’t get a drop of blood on the wedding dress.”
“Jesus,” I say, popping open the top of the first-aid kit and extracting the necessary items.
“That’s not even the worst one.” She tosses her hair to the side, exposing a slew of discolored marks along the side of her neck.
“Burn marks, from a Fourth of July wedding, where the groomsmen bought bottle rockets instead of sparklers. Luckily thegroom was in the Army, so he jumped on top of the bride before she could get hurt. I wasn’t as lucky.”
“I’d hate to be your insurance provider,” I jest.
“My premiums are pretty high.”
Delicately, I wipe away as much of the blood on her knee as I can before ripping open an alcohol wipe.
“This might sting,” I warn.
“I can handle it,” she says, wincing.
My hands work slowly, relishing the feeling of her skin against mine as I make sure there aren’t any deeper lacerations hiding underneath the blood. But when all I see are surface scratches, I slather on disinfecting ointment and wrap it in gauze.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, securing my work with a piece of surgical tape.
“I’m just thinking about how you’re so good at so many things, but you can’t make a whiskey sour to save your life.”
“You really don’t like my drinks?” I’d thought her earlier comments were a dig to cut me down. But they couldn’t be that bad, could they?
Mira bites at her lip, holding back a smile as she tries to gently let me down. “No one wants to tell the sweet, attractive bartender that they wasted twelve dollars. But, Hudson, your drinks suck.”
I mockingly place a hand over my chest. “Damn. Even hearing you say I’m attractive doesn’t ease the hurt.”
“Oh my God. Shut up.” She blushes bashfully, and I have to admit every time it happens it’s like I’ve completed a quest.
“How about I make it up to you by taking you out for a real cocktail when we get home. At one of those fancy bars where they have the mood lighting and overpriced olive bowls,” I offer, ready to put a real date in the calendar.
“Or you could buy me one now?”
23 Mira
“I thought we were getting a drink,” I say as Hudson pulls the Jeep off the side of the road, parking in an unmarked spot in front of a trailhead.
“I want to show you something first,” he says, letting his fingers linger against the bare skin of my thigh before unbuckling his seatbelt. He didn’t stop touching me the entire ride. While one hand stayed on the steering wheel, the other stretched over to play with my hair, or dance along my shoulder, or hold my hand.
Walking around the car, Hudson opens my door for me. He extends his hand, and I use it to support my weight as I drop the two feet down onto the ground.
“God, I hate being short,” I say, regaining my balance.
“I know what you mean,” Hudson replies, dragging a hand down his face, an insecurity tic I’ve grown to notice.
“What, you’re five ten? Five eleven.”
“Five nine according to my last physical.”
“That’s tall,” I argue.
“Is it?”
“Please,” I scoff. “I hate this idea that men have to be six feet tall to be attractive. Not that you’re short,” I ramble. “All I’m saying is, I bet you’ve never had to ask for help to reach the yogurt on the top shelf of the grocery store.”
