I didn’t even know him, yet I still feel a sudden rush of tears.
“Did that hurt?” Thayer’s dark eyebrows knit in concern.
“Did what hurt?” I ask stupidly, my mind still turning over the details of a life taken so suddenly.
Thayer blinks. “The antiseptic.” I look down to see my jeans damp with some kind of liquid he’s clumsily poured over my wound. Nothing about Thayer is haphazard, so I’m surprised to see he spilled it at all. He’s usually such a perfectionist.
“Here, let me. I can do it,” I say, reaching for the cotton pad and small bottle of antiseptic. The slanting frown between his brows tells methat’snot an option and he pauses only long enough to give me a cold, hard stare.
The collar of his shirt is open at the neck, revealing a hint of dark curls. I shiver and turn away, aware that I am having very inappropriate thoughts about a man who might as well be mybrother.
My very much older brother, I remind myself.
But while he dabs the liquid on another clean cotton pad, I lean down to look at my injuries. He smells like fresh air, pine, and cedar with a little spice.
I realize he’s talking to me.
“What?” I say, pretending that I’m not indulging in schoolgirl fantasies but maybe I’m a little traumatized.
I begin to shake when I remember what happened again. I close my eyes against a rush of anxiety that sends nausea swirling in my belly. I swallow and look at him.
“I said,” he begins, holding my gaze for a little too long. I squirm. “It would be a lot easier to tend to these wounds if you removed your pants.”
I blink as if I don’t understand him.
“Is that the best pick-up line you could muster?”
I can’t believe I just said that.
He narrows his eyes at me.
“Okay, so yeah, it probably would help, but I’m not crazy about… about removing my clothing,” I say in a whisper. I look wildly around the room for something that will get me out of this situation, because I am so not taking off my pants in the middle of the Gerard family living room.
His eyes are trained on me, narrowed.
“Maybe we need to remove the bits of gravel embedded in your flesh,” he chides. I wince at his scalding tone.
I nod.
Right.
Yes.
I should… remove my pants.
I reach for the button at my belly and flinch when I clench my hands. Good God, that hurts.
“Here,” he says in a harsh whisper. “Let me.”
And then his hands are on my waist and he’s lifting me to stand.
“I’m going to hell for this,” he says as he meets my eyes. “Just so we’re clear.”
“It’s a strange, harsh world you live in that you think doctoring someone’s wounds would send you to hell,” I whisper.
But his hands are at my waist and he’s expertly unfastening my pants.
Pushing them down my hips. Lowering them past my knees one by one, gently, making sure the fabric doesn’t scrape against my wounds.
