Page 41 of There's Pumpkin About You
Which means that even though I can’t see it, there is most definitely a bare chest that completes the set.
His usual distressed jeans hang low on his waist as he moves barefoot around his space. He’s humming to himself, some tune I can’t recognize, and he surprisingly has a beautiful voice. A pumpkin farmer who sings: who would have thought?
I mentally prepare myself for the even more gorgeous sight I’m about to see.
“So does this count as kidnapping, or are you planning on telling the court that I went with you voluntarily?”
It all happens so quickly—one second he’s calmly singing and cooking bacon and the next he’s jumping in surprise, causing him to knock over the frying pan which proceeds to fall and spill hot oil onto his bare feet.
“FUCK!” he screams, hopping from one foot to the other, trying to avoid the bacon grease that slowly streams across the light wood floors.
Wide-eyed, I scramble for the kitchen cloth that is still draped over his shoulder and run to the large farmhouse sink to run it under the cold water.
“Sit down,” I instruct him. He doesn’t listen because he’s too busy listing off every curse word he knows. “Sit down, August!”
He glares at me, but sits down at the small oak dining table. I grab some ice from the freezer and wrap it in the cloth. I gingerly place it onto his feet which have turned a nasty shade of red. He hisses and curses again, sending me a signature glare before closing his eyes.
“What were you thinking?” I ask.
“What wasIthinking?” he seethes. “What the fuck wereyouthinking? Sneaking up on someone like that. Are none of my goddamn door frames safe from your skulking?”
“Oh, ha ha, you’re so funny.”
Gus hisses through his teeth as the cold penetrates his burnt skin, working hard to cool down the area so that it doesn’t get any worse.
I balance the ice on his foot so that I can get up and find a basin.
“What the hell are you searching for?”
“A basin, or something that can hold your big-ass feet and some cold water.”
I hear him groan as I start to search the pantry. “I can’t believe people think you’re nice.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure that me trying to make sure you keep the skin on your feet is me being an absolute bitch.”
I can’t find anything large enough, so I whip another dishcloth off of the side and drench it under the tap. As softly as I can, I slowly lift his leg and move a chair underneath it. He winces a few times whilst I wrap the ice and his foot in the cloth. His tanned skin is beginning to blister.
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
“It’ll be fine,” Gus growls, trying to rip his foot away from me.
“You need to let the doctor look at it,” I argue.
“The doctor is going to tell me exactly what I already know. That my foot is burnt.”
“By oil, August. Not steam or hot water. Oil is more serious.”
“It only splattered onto my foot, it’s fine.”
“August.” His head whips up and he watches me with wide eyes. I know what it is that catches his attention. It’s the way I say his name, the desperation that coats each syllable and the way it mixes in with pure frustration.
I’m pleading with him. That’s something I haven’t done before, not even when I was trying to get him to agree to work with me and that’s because I don’t beg… ever. My dad always said that if you need to beg for something from someone, then the answer will always be no in the end.
This time, though, I need him to listen to me. I need us to temporarily break through this constant back and forth we’re a part of so that I can get him the help he’s pretending he doesn’t need.
“Please let me take you to the hospital.”
Time slows as he watches me with that analytical gaze of his. Thankfully, he eventually nods, and I sigh in relief.
