Page 35 of The Pansy Paradox
“You have a few scars,” he says, fingers exploring beyond the wound on my back. “This will help. Again, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” And really, these words emerge with more air than voice. “It’s hard to reach my own back.”
“Hm. Indeed.”
Immediately, the balm sinks in, burrowing through my pores, rooting out the lingering toxins. Tension drains from my shoulders. I exhale a shuddering breath.
“That’s amazing.”
The combination of his fingers and the balm is intoxicating. Apparently, he’s not only an extraordinary field agent but a master masseur as well. If he doesn’t stop soon, my bones will melt, and I’ll be little more than a Pansy puddle on the kitchen floor.
“It’s definitely useful.” He takes a final swipe. “There you go.”
I should run upstairs for a fresh T-shirt, but I’m locked in place, not quite sure what to do or say next. The simmering heat in the kitchen fades, and a hint of that schoolmaster sternness returns. I’m a little disappointed, although I probably shouldn’t be, and I most definitely shouldn’t be flirting with the man conducting my field agent examination.
Then again, I’m probably not the first apprentice field agent whose pulse went all fluttery around Agent Darnelle. No doubt I won’t be the last, either.
“Are you sure I can’t return the favor?” This is maybe not the most innuendo-free sentence I’ve ever uttered.
“I’m fine.” He’s spreading a bit of the balm along his forearms, across a series of what looks like defensive wounds. He is, resolutely, not meeting my eyes.
“Even you can’t reach your own back,” I add.
He plucks at the shirt he’s wearing. “Also special issue. The weave protects against all but the hardest of hits. I’m more than fine.”
I make one last, gallant try. “You have a cut.” I touch my eyebrow with my ring finger. “Right there.”
“Do I?” He probes his forehead, brow crinkled in curiosity. Then he winces. “I guess I do.”
“Let me? It needs to be cleaned.”
“I—” he begins, and I’m convinced he’ll refuse, but he surprises me with a nod and takes a seat.
I step close, and again, the pulse in my stomach takes up that fluttery beat. His skin glows with a sheen of sweat. The dampness makes his hair—close-cropped and obsidian dark—curl ever so slightly. I am the consummate professional, inspecting and cleaning the wound. His breath hisses with a sharp inhale.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“No, they broke the skin, is all. It needs to be cleaned.”
The wound is small, so this is absolutely something he could do on his own, back at the bed and breakfast. But then I wouldn’t get to bring my lips close to his temple. I wouldn’t get to breathe in that spicy vanilla mixed with sweat and soil and success. Yes, this is a man used to triumph.
“Should I use the balm?” I ask.
In answer, he pushes the container my way. I dab the wound with a generous amount and then secure a tiny butterfly bandage along his brow.
“There,” I say, feeling a bit triumphant myself.
“Thank you, Agent Little.”
And with those crisp words, I am dismissed. So I finish making the tea, marveling at how wonderful my back feels. My mother’s salve works, but it’s goopy and smelly and sticky and feels like ten extra pounds. This balm is so light, so invigorating, I could almost head back to the housing development and dispatch another round of Screamers.
Instead, I busy myself at the kitchen counter. I add a pinch of this and a drop of that to the tea, set it on the kitchen table, and then pull out two teacups.
“There’s milk and sugar,” I say, “but it works faster undiluted.”
We sip in silence. The combination of my mother’s concoction and caffeine works immediately, warming my stomach, rushing through my veins, clearing my head. A weight lifts from my chest.
“This is marvelous.” Agent Darnelle reaches for the teapot and then draws his hand back. “May I? How does it work? Should I not drink any more?”
