His palm is warm against mine. Slightly rough. Still tense.
I lead him from my room and into the hallway.
Callie calls after us, “Don’t bleed on the good towels.”
“We don’t have good towels,” I call back.
“The purple ones are off-limits.”
Drew makes a faint sound. It might be a laugh.
Good. He needs to relax.
I guide him into the bathroom and flip on the light. He immediately winces, blinking at his reflection in the mirror.
“Oh God,” he mutters. “My collar is still up like a bad spy.”
I step beside him and study him.
There are scratches along one cheek, dried blood on his forearm, dirt on his neck, and at least two leaves still tangled in his hair.
He looks ridiculous.
He also looks painfully endearing.
“That’s what you’re worried about.” I reach up and pluck a leaf from the side of his head.
He watches me in the mirror.
“I look insane,” he says.
“More like a bad spy in a rom-com.”
His ears turn red.
“In my defense…” He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been drinking.”
“I gathered that.”
“I don’t drink whiskey. Ever.” A beat. “Until today.”
My mouth curves. “Was it medicinal?”
“No. It was a mistake.”
“Clearly.”
His gaze flicks to mine in the mirror. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“A lot.”
“Maybe.”
He exhales, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
I open the cabinet beneath the sink and pull out the first-aid kit. Drew watches as I set it on the counter.
