Page 3 of The Reward of You

“Girls, why don’t you go make your mom a cup of tea? Put some sugar in it, even if she doesn’t normally. It’s good for shock,” I point out to Noelle when I can see her about to protest. “Come on, this won’t take long and it will be easier on both of us without an audience.”

I shine the tiny LED flashlight that makes up the center body of a jeweled butterfly over her curvy body. Most of my brain is professionally engaged in looking for any hint of shine or sparkle that would indicate glass. But a part of me is very conscious of exactly how beautiful she is, every single gorgeous inch of her. There’s a hint of glass on the ridge of her hip. “Tweezers?” I ask brusquely, the word hard to get out of my throat.

“Top drawer on the right in the bathroom,” she whispers. Her rosy nipples have gone hard, practically begging me to kiss them, but somehow I resist. For now.

I carefully tug out the splinter, setting it on the nightstand and continue surveillance. “Can you turn over on your side? Whichever way is easiest. I need to check your back, too.”

I sound brusque and unfriendly even to my own ears, but it’s all resistance to pulling her close and holding her until she surrenders. It’s going to be a very interesting conversation when we finally get there.

The girls come back into the room just as I’m finishing up, Miranda carefully holding a big mug of steaming tea while Bea prances beside her.

In all, I pull five splinters out of Noelle’s porcelain skin. I help her sit up and bring the covers back over her. It’s a shame to obscure those beautiful breasts, but I know she’ll feel more comfortable this way. I take over pressure on the makeshift bandage so Miranda can hand her the mug. She takes a sip and grimaces. “How much sugar did you put in here?”

“Lots,” Bea whispers. “You need to get better.”

Noelle’s face softens and I can see she’d walk through fire for her kids and drink liquid sugar to make them feel better. She takes another sip. “You’re right. And Bea? I’m really proud of you for running to get Sam. That was quick thinking.”

Bea beams with pride, and then abruptly wraps her arms around my thigh. “Can we keep him?”

Noelle’s mouth pops open into an O of surprise that has me wanting to imagine things we still don’t have time for right now. My chuckle is slightly strained, but I grin down at Bea, anyway. “We’ll talk about it when the bleeding has stopped, okay, kid?” Earlier in the day I’d have said there wasn’t a chance in hell that Noelle would ever look at me, but now… That ancient calendar page plus the way her body is reacting to me right now tell me I need to re-evaluate everything.

Bea smirks back at me, satisfied that I didn’t say no and lets go of my leg. I peek under the washcloth. The gash isn’t very long, but it’s too deep for just a bandage.

“Okay, Noelle, you’ve got a choice to make here. You need stitches. We can go to the emergency room now, but since it’s not life threatening, there will likely be a wait. Or I can do it and I can take you to your regular doctor in the morning. That last option also comes with the requirement that I’m sleeping right here in case something goes south.”

Sam smolders at me impatiently while he waits for me to make a decision. It’s almost distracting how much he resembles his younger self, still hopefully undetected on my bathroom wall. I don’t want to go to the emergency room, but it would get us all out of the house and away from that damned calendar. I can only hope that he was too busy holding on to me to notice it. But I can’t be sure. Is it worth that embarrassment to scare my girls even more and have to sit around in an uncomfortable waiting room for hours? Probably not. I scrunch up my face to release some of the tension.

“I’m okay with you doing it, but with what? I have a basic first aid kit, but it doesn’t come with anything that advanced,” I finally announce.

“I have a field medical kit at my place. Take over pressure again for a few minutes and I’ll go get it. The sooner we patch you up, the sooner you can get well.” He pauses for a second and leans in to whisper in my ear, “And the sooner we can talk about your taste in ancient calendars, baby.”

I flush scarlet. I don’t even have to look to confirm my visible embarrassment. I can feel my skin burning as I close my eyes in horror. Sam only chuckles at my distress. I can’t even look to take over keeping pressure on my wound. I find the washcloth and his hand by touch and he lets me take over.

“Be right back,” he says briskly and I hear his large feet tromping down the stairs and then a quiet conversation with Miranda.

My eldest comes back into my room and heads straight for the closet with an unusual air of authority. “Whatever are you doing, Miranda?”

“Sam said to find you an old bathrobe for while he’s stitching you up and some pajamas or a nightgown for after that will leave your arm bare.”

“Can you help me into the bathrobe now?”

She shakes her head no, her lips quirking at the ends, which means she’s doing her damnedest not to grin. Sometime in the last year or so, my eldest decided she was too cool and the world too depressing to smile. Even when she wants to. I keep telling myself it’s a phase, but I’m relieved to see signs that the spell might be breaking.

“Sam said no.”

“Since when is our next-door neighbor in charge around here?” I grouse, but it’s only half-hearted. We all know the girls aren’t capable of lifting me out of the tub in one go and I wouldn’t have let them try. We’d have all ended up in the emergency room.

Miranda scuffs her toe on the rug by my bed. “Are you going to tell him you like him?”

My eyes go wide. “What makes you think that?” I ask, as innocently as I can manage. My scrambling attempt at denial is as transparent as the glass still sitting at the bottom of my tub. I grimace, thinking of having to clean that up.

Miranda rolls her eyes. “You never looked out the windows that much when the Mortisons lived there. And you never seem to need to look out the windows on the Evans’s side either. So you must like looking at Sam.”

I open my mouth to correct her and then shut it again. Her observations are correct, and what kind of mother would I be to attempt to convince her otherwise?

“He looks at you too, you know?” Miranda offers sweetly.

“He does?” I’m not proud of the eagerness in my voice.

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