“It’s important, believe me. In the bag, I have some powder wound sealant. It’s in a round container—”
He grabbed my unwounded hand and pressed it to the cut and stepped away, springing into action. Then he scooted his stool up to me. “Sit. I don’t want you passing out. Your car keys?”
“In the front pocket of my bag. On the sofa.”
He disappeared and was back in minutes holding the round container, instructions-side up, walking and reading at the same time. He set my key chain—complete with a dangling space shuttle replica—on the counter, continuing to read the directions on how to use the powder sealant. When I reached for the medicine, having used it before, he pulled out of my reach, continuing to read before taking my hand and following the directions to the letter. He’d be accustomed to that sort of thing, wouldn’t he? Quickly scanning checklists and protocols while on board the ISS, speeding across low earth orbit at 17,000 miles per hour.
“No spinach or kale. Both have Vitamin K, which aids blood clotting. And you carry wound sealant with you, which means you’re on blood thinners.” He spoke in a clipped voice as he worked on me.
“Yes.”
His tone was like ice. “You should be wearing a medical alert bracelet.”
I held up my unwounded hand to show him the medical alert medallion dangling from my right wrist. He flicked a glance at it and then went back to inspecting my wound. His large hand enveloped mine, which had never—ever—felt so small before this. His palm was callused—a working hand. The roughness felt good against the back of my own. In fact, I could hardly notice the slight throbbing pain because of his nearness. His smell.
He smelled like seashells—wind, sand, ocean—salty and earthy with a hint of lime. He bent his head again to inspect the progress of the clot. My lower arm was sticky, coated with a thin layer of my own blood. “Deep enough cuts can be life threatening on blood thinners. Even bruises are dangerous.”
He’d taken on a lecturing tone to deliver to me facts I already knew—rather well.
For once, I bit my tongue instead of speaking out against mansplaining.
I swallowed, trying hard to ignore the way my heart knocked irregularly against my ribs with his nearness. The clicking sound from within my chest was loud enough that he surely heard it too.
I tried not to think about how he was beyond gorgeous and smelled oh, so good. The thump in my chest reverberated through every part of my body. Why was it always the heart that was associated with these feelings? Why not the liver or the kidneys or—
Oh. Now he was blowing on the wound, and despite the slight sting, I shivered—and not from pain either.
This man was making me tremble and flush from his attention and touch. Those fingers idly cradling my hand? I felt them clear up my arm, in the center of my chest. Tingles, warm and sparkly.
“We need to clean you up and get you to a clinic.”
“A clinic? Why?”
“For stitches. It’s deep, Gray.”
“Can’t you do it?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Yes, but I’m not a doctor.”
No more doctors. No more hospitals. Not now. I’d had so much of that my whole life and would probably have more too. I didn’t want to sit in a clinic for this. Not if he could help me.
“But you’re trained to perform minor medical procedures. Do you have the supplies?”
He took a breath and let it out, straightening. “I can easily do this. I assumed you’d prefer a doctor.”
I shook my head vigorously. “I have no desire to go to an ER or clinic for something this minor.”
Images rushed through my head unbidden—mind-wrecking pain through the middle of my chest for weeks. The smell of astringent and cleaning fluid. The sandpapery feel of hospital sheets. Ugh. No.
He sighed, turning my hand over and inspecting it again, to ensure the bleeding had completely stopped. Then he straightened. “Wait here. I’ll get my med kit,” he muttered.
He came back with an impressively sized plastic container that had been latched closed. Placing it on the counter, he asked again. “You feeling okay? No headache or light-headedness from the blood loss? You still look pale.”
I fought against bristling at the accusation—the one I heard all too often from my father. I glanced up at him. Instead of biting sarcasm or mild mockery, there was genuine concern in his deep-blue eyes. I swallowed and nodded. “I feel fine. Thanks.”
“Then let me get this cleaned out and closed up. I want to check and make sure there aren’t any micro pieces of glass in the wound, so I’ll numb you up a little and poke around in there.”
He pulled out a pair of glasses from a case and slipped them on. Then he put on some rubber gloves and pulled out a syringe of lidocaine to numb the area of the cut. I bit my lip when he shot me up. He tenderly held the hand while we waited for it to numb. Through this, I was grateful he didn’t pepper me with probing questions.
I couldn’t look when he used a swab to poke around inside the cut. I couldn’t feel anything, but the sight of it was grossing me out. Satisfied, he pulled out antiseptic to clean the wound.
“I can’t use the surgical glue because of the way the cut went through the heel of your hand. But I’ll use plenty of stitches to minimize scarring.”
“I’m not that concerned about having a scar on the heel of my hand.” I had plenty far more prominent scars to worry about.
He glanced up at me, over the top edge of his magnifying glasses, his features all too serious. “I only do my best work. Always.”
I bit my lip and nodded. “Okay.”
Well, well, well. I’d found at least one situation in which the American Douchebag was likable. When he was taking care of someone else. It was almost a marvel to see how well he fell into the role so naturally. So capably.
The protective instinct ran very deep in him. That much was obvious. It was almost endearing to see. Almost.
“I’ll clean up your arm after we get you closed up. I don’t want to chance you starting to bleed again.”
“The wound sealant usually works extremely well.”
His brow shot up. “You use it often? Maybe you should be more careful, especially while on a blood thinner.”
“The blood thinner is a permanent thing. So I just have to deal.”
“Then you need to be more careful about the activities you choose to participate in,” he growled in that voice that sounded like he’d become my self-appointed guardian.
I raised a brow. “You mean make the safe choice?” I mocked his earlier words to me.
With a huff, he didn’t reply. Then he bent his head to begin his work. And instead of looking at what he was doing, I bent my head too. Because at this angle, I got a whiff of his amazing-smelling hair. It was soft as it brushed against my cheek, and my heart started bumping loudly in my chest again. And…
There it was, the telltale click-click-click in the silence. I straightened and he muttered, “Hold still. Just a few more to go.”
But I wanted to pull away before he heard. Oh, who was I kidding? He’d already heard. Everyone could hear it sooner or later, unless they had hearing impairments.
He straightened and looked at me, our faces inches from each other.
“Did you feel anything?”
I blinked. “Oh, uh, no.” At least not physically.
He reached up and whipped off his glasses. “Okay. So when I say stand still, I mean it. Don’t get all wiggly on me.”
He glanced down at my chest. That same cold fear sliced through me again. Had he heard me ticking like an antique watch? What was he thinking?
He frowned. “You have blood all over your shirt and your arm. Let me lend you a fresh one to wear.”
Inexplicable relief washed over me. I glanced at his broad chest—right in front of me. Too close. So close it was making it difficult to breathe.
Upon examining that broad chest more closely—purely for professional reasons, of course—I said,
“Your shirt would fit like a dress on me.”
He shrugged. “Better than looking like a victim of attempted murder.”
I looked down at my ruined shirt, embroidered stars and rockets all over it, the pale blue blotched with blood. “You have a point.”
“Also, peroxide for the stains will get it out good as new.”
My brow crept up. “You seem more knowledgeable than you should be about things like laundering clothing. Or maybe it’s specifically about blood. Hidden a few bodies, have you?”
The words, they slipped out without my checking them, and his slight smile froze on his features. The awkward moment hung there between us, and I felt like complete crap, blinking like an idiot and feeling a little light-headed with embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m such a—”
He shook his head. “It’s all good. Besides, I only hid the bodies of the behavioral health professionals we had to work with.” He punctuated with a good-natured wink and a laugh. And, the moment dissipated, I laughed along with him.
He sobered a little after a minute. “When I was on the SEAL teams, we had to deal with blood quite often.”
After delivering that disconcerting bit of news as if he were describing another day at the office, he turned on his heel and left the room, returning minutes later. In his hand was a folded black T-shirt much like the one he was wearing, with the giant NASA logo in the middle of the chest. He pointed out a small bathroom off the kitchen and handed me a washcloth to clean off my arm.
I sighed when I realized that the T-shirt had a V-neck, but put it on anyway. As I’d suspected, upon inspecting myself in the mirror, the shirt was huge on me, practically hitting my knees. The collar drooped down low, almost to my bra. The red scar that stretched from my navel up past the top of my sternum, almost to the notch where my chest met my throat, was plainly visible.
I pulled the collar up, scooting it back on my shoulders so that the V of the collar rested against the base of my neck. It looked weird, but maybe he’d just take me for being overly modest or something. To keep it in place, I pulled the base of the shirt tight around my waist and knotted it there. Who knew if it would hold? It was worth a shot anyway. It was either that or wear it backward.
It was stupid to feel self-conscious about the scar. I usually wasn’t. But for some reason… Well, if the blood thinners and the loud, clicky heartbeat hadn’t clued him in, I didn’t feel like discussing my all too in-your-face weaknesses with a man who projected such outward physical perfection and chose not to admit to any weakness at all.
I came out, and he glanced briefly at my getup, before his eyes flew to my face, scanning my features with narrowed eyes. “You still look pale to me.”
“I didn’t lose that much blood. It’s not like I need a transfusion.” I’d had several of those before, too.
He drew a deep breath and released it, considering. “Well, I’d feel better if you didn’t drive home like this.”
Good, because I was staying anyway. I bit the inside of my lip to keep from giving a snarky reply. He was trying, in his own way, to be nice, after all. But I was also half certain he was going to suggest calling me a cab.
“And since Victoria is coming over for a meeting in the morning, you might as well stay. Tonight. That way I can keep an eye on you since it’s my fault you were injured.”
My brow twitched. Fine. At least we could start here. Once Victoria was here in the morning, we could both put pressure on him to let me stay.
“You’re taking responsibility for a crappy souvenir cup randomly breaking in my hand.” What else have you taken responsibility for, Commander?
“I feel badly that you were hurt.” He waved toward my hand. “Especially considering your health issues.”
I straightened my spine. “I am fine. The health issues aren’t dire.” But I wasn’t going to assert my independence so much that I’d leave. He’d finally capitulated. Partly, anyway.
He leaned against the doorjamb and continued to stare down at me. “So since you were so quick to impose rules on me. No benders. No partying. No womanizing—”
“Yes?” I arched my brows at him.
“Well, I have some rules of my own.” His features were serious—somber, even.
I pressed my lips together, half expecting him to forbid me from going into the west wing of the house where he kept his enchanted rose under a glass.
“Well, like I said—”
“You’re good at rules. Yes, I remember,” he finished. “Then that means you will observe these… First of all, no shrink talk. No psychoanalysis. No talk of PTSD or trauma or however you choose to label it.”
I blinked. “Is that—is that all one rule?”
His gaze narrowed at me in clear irritation, and I held up my uninjured palm as if to give up the point. No need to agitate him.
And was he even serious with me right now? How could he possibly convince anyone that his downward spiral wasn’t because of trauma from the accident? That horrific accident I’d watched him narrate on video as if he’d been discussing the latest NFL score.
As they said, denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt.
Instead of arguing, I cleared my throat. “Anything else?”
“My privacy. Respect it. This is my house. You leave everything as I have it. For example, if a light is on. It stays on.”
Lights? What an odd example. “I’m happy to grant you as much privacy as you need. But please, no having sex while I’m under the same roof.”
He scowled. “You already gave me your rules.”
“Consider it an axiom under the no-womanizing rule. And I get to add it because of your behavior this afternoon.”
“So…what, should I hang a tie on my front door?”
“How about you endeavor to control your urges?”
He didn’t respond beyond folding his arms over his chest and looking at me like I was insane.
And before I forgot, I added. “Also…Wheaton’s law.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
He laughed. “Sorry, not going to apologize for breaking that one.”
“Are you planning to?”
“I thought I already had?”
I straightened. “You have. But I’m willing to grant amnesty for the recent past if you can get it together.”
“Does that mean I get probation from you living here?”
“How about I consider giving you time off for good behavior—after you’ve proven to me that you’re doing better?”
He pushed off from the doorjamb, still not looking happy about my proposal.
I pressed. “I promise to be as unobtrusive a roomie as possible. You won’t have to pick up after me, either. I—” I glanced at the sink, and it was pristine. He’d cleaned up everything during the few short minutes I’d been in the bathroom. “Astronauts are good housekeepers, too.”
“Habit. There’s no cleaning service on station. One day out of the week, we are on cleanup duty. And since all the mess floats everywhere, it’s extra motivation to keep things clean.”
“Do you care which of your spare rooms I use?”
A brow went up. “Apparently not the one I used earlier.”
“Definitely not that one. But I’m sure you have others. I’ll go gather my things.” I said, grabbing my toiletry bag off the counter and heading to the living room for my laptop bag and other items.
He followed me until we rounded a corner into the hallway, past his row of gorgeous, professionally framed photographs.
He paused at the one I’d knocked into earlier, straightening it with a frown before sending me a sidelong glance. I could feel my face flush hot with embarrassment, remembering the circumstances in which I’d backed into the picture, nearly knocking it off the wall. He’d been playing headboard percussion against the wall with his moaning trainer.
I gestured to the photos. “Did you take these from LEO?”
His brow spiked at my use of the jar
gon. “Yes, from the cupola windows on station.”
I glanced at them again. One of them was a network of lights over a black landscape—a major city captured at nighttime. Another was an azure river’s complex delta gleaming from brown landscape. “The mouth of the Nile,” he said, pointing to it. “And this one, that you’re already quite familiar with, is the Bahamas.” He indicated the picture I’d admired before, the islands and water of different shades of blue and green, streaming in between them. “That’s everyone’s favorite landmark from low earth orbit.”
“Not yours?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t have a favorite. Everything was amazing and gorgeous from that vantage point, even the stuff that’s not so beautiful on the surface.” His eyes flicked from the picture to me. “Guess it takes another angle to prove you can see beauty in anything.”
I stared for another long minute, admiring his skill with the camera, and the silence stretched out between us. I tried hard not to look at him even when I could tell he was staring at me. Soon, it got awkward, and my face felt like it would melt off, so I backed away and continued to the living room to grab my things.
Gingerly, so as to favor my injury, I stuffed my things back in my bag. He smiled, seemingly amused that I’d come so overly prepared. It was pretty safe to say that anyone with any reasonable amount of intelligence by now would have figured out I was a huge nerd. I didn’t lie to myself about fooling anyone.
He nodded to the front door. “You need to lock up your car—unless there’s something else out there you need?” He laughed. “Like another towel or something?”
“Is this a ploy to get me outside so you can lock me out?” When he shook his head good-naturedly, I continued, “I do have to put the windows up in my car.”
He followed me out to the driveway. The sun had just set, and the outside lighting came on. Everything was lit up bright—planters, the steps, all along the driveway. Big spotlights on the house. It seemed strange. You’d think an astronaut would be more concerned about light pollution—and energy conservation, for that matter.
Hell, under this lighting, he could probably perform surgery out here.
Ty pointed out the battery-operated fan in my front seat. “These new BMWs sure have interesting climate systems.”
High Risk (Point of No Return Book 1) Page 10