Page 7 of Finding Forever

“Hey,” I whisper. I have to stop myself from brushing back his hair. Touching him when he was unconscious was easy. Now he’s aware and watching me.

Luke Elliott doesn’t know me. And there’s no reason he should feel the crazy moment of connection drawing me to him.

I slide off the bed and tug the blanket higher around his shoulders, putting distance between us before I do something foolish.

He licks his lips. “Katarina.”

He says my name slowly, like he’s testing it. Like it matters. A frisson of awareness works its way down my spine.

His gaze travels around the room. “This your bedroom?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’m renovating the inn. It’s the only usable room right now.” And the only bed. I don’t finish that thought. “I’ll get you pain meds. Google says acetaminophen’s best if you’ve lost blood.”

“Wait.”

I stop in the doorway.

“Briggs. Any sign?”

I shake my head and step out before he can read anything else on my face. Penny trails after me.

The sun is going down, but I can’t risk turning on the kitchen light. I grab a flashlight and cover most of the beam with my hand so only a thin sliver shows. I’ve been proofing bread in the oven. I take it out and set the oven to preheat. Penny whines and I fill her dish with kibble, then fill a water bottle and gather the meds. All the while my mind is full of the man in my bed.

IN MY BED.

When I come back, Luke is trying to sit up.

Pain carves sharp lines across his face, but determination is right there with it, unyielding. He pulled off the beanie and short black hair stands up in dark tufts, silver catching the light at his temples.

“What are you doing?” I snap, rushing forward. “Do you want to start bleeding again?”

He drops back onto the pillow with a muttered curse. “I hate lying here.”

“You’re alive,” I tell him, holding the straw near his mouth. “And I’d like to keep you that way.”

Our gazes lock as he swallows the pills. It feels like breaking a magnetic field to look away.

“You have to give yourself a chance to regain your strength and heal. Plus, you lost a lot of blood,” I add. “Drink more.”

He does, reluctantly, then pulls back. “How long was I out?”

“About twenty minutes.” I pull a chair closer and sit. “The bullet went through. I cleaned the wound the best I could.”

He lifts the blanket, eyes flicking down, and then back up to my face. “You undressed me.”

“Yes.” Heat crawls up my neck. “You were soaked and needed to get warm. I, um, left your underwear on.”

His lips twitch, then he moves his hand and closes it gently around mine when I lean in to check the bandage.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

His thumb moves, almost absentmindedly, brushing my palm. Sensation shoots straight up my arm. I freeze, aware of his gaze, of the feel of his breath on my skin.

“I…” I swallow. “I need my hand to check the bandage.”

“Right.” He lets go, but the warmth lingers.

The dressing is dry and relief steadies me. I busy myself with his wet clothes. Emptying his pockets feels oddly intimate, something a wife would do. I put everything on the nightstand.