Page 123 of Break the Ice
“Do you have cornstarch and baking soda?” He asks, giving me a rare, beaming smile, as though he’s purposefully trying to dazzle me.
Fuck, he’s gorgeous.
In another world, I would kiss him. I wouldn’t care who’s watching or who he is. I would lean over and press my lips to his. I would steal every molecule of breath from his lungs while I savored every divine note of his taste.
I wouldn’t stop, not even when we were both gasping for air with our heartbeats pounding into our ribs and our blood scorching through our veins.
I wouldn’t stop.
“JJ?” His hand grips my face roughly, pulling my focus from his lips to his hooded eyes as he spins me backwards into the kitchen counter with a hand on my waist and then orders sternly, “Sit.”
“So bossy, all of a sudden,” I tease, perching myself on the edge of the counter while he glares at me.
“Behave or I’ll let you bleed out.”
“You love me too much.” I blurt the remark before I catch myself, opting to laugh the aftermath off so the atmosphere doesn’t get weird between us.
Eli rolls his eyes at the face I pull when Finley brings over the cornstarch and baking soda he asked for.
“Do you need to go to the ER?” Momma asks, drinking what’s left of her prickly pear margarita. “Shit, JJ, I can’t drive you.”
“I’m good to go,” Dad tells her from across the room while The Sire and Mom shake their heads at the two of them as they continue preparing dinner.
Nothing phases them. Or maybe it’s that every year, someone ends up having to visit the ER for one reason or another. Last year, Dad slipped on Mom’s freshly mopped floor and fractured his elbow. The year before, Momma sliced The Sire’s thumb off, barring one bit of skin that stopped it from getting lost in the gravy. The year before that, Momma was so sick from the chemo that we had to take her to the ER for dehydration.
We refer to it as the Behnam-Morrow curse. I seriously thought that this year, we would break it. Clearly, I was wrong.
I huff out my disappointment, staring at the washed-out claret running down my hand into the sink. In the back of my mind, the conversation with Isla is still whirring around, along with the silent thrill from Eli touching me in front of everyone.
I can still feel the heat of his hand on my face. The remnants of his gruff grip pulsing beneath my skin. And the unquenchable urge to kiss him. To taste him. To hold him right back.
“Darling,” Momma coos from behind Eli’s bulging bicep as he reaches for the paper towel roll to the side. “You want me to grab my things and run you to the hospital with your dad?”
“It’s just a small cut, nothing to cry about,” Eli tells her, pulling my finger from under the water and gently patting it dry. “The powder mixture will stop the bleeding. A Band-Aid will be fine.”
“My hero,” I croon jokingly.
“If we don’t end up in the ER this year, you’re a saint. A godsend…” Momma hugs him from behind.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch one bit. Instead, he dips my finger into the mixture and swirls it around for a bit before he takes it out and wraps a Band-Aid around it.
“All done.” Eli holds my hand up to her for inspection.
“Wait, he’s okay? I didn’t cut his finger off?” Isla comes up beside me to check the damage.
“He might still want your momma to kiss his booboo better, but yeah, he’s all good.” Eli grins at her, putting her at ease.
This is a side of Eli I’ve never been privy to. He’s at ease and seemingly happy. Like he’s always belonged in our family.
It feels so incredible that my face burns from ear to ear.
“Maybe give him a plastic knife for the rest of the day,” Kailey calls from the island where she’s picking at the marshmallows for The Sire’s sweet potato casserole. “You might want to squeeze some fresh lime juice, so you don’t have vampire margaritas.”
“Might be tasty,” The Sire jokes, followed by his favorite Halloween line, “I vant to drink your blud... mwahahaha…”
“Well, crisis averted,” Mom calls, clapping everyone out of the kitchen. “Let’s get this dinner finished so we actually eat today.”
The throb of my injury is a faraway pulse as Eli walks me to the couch via the fridge. Taking out the orange juice carton, he pours a small glass and hands it to me. “You didn’t lose that much blood, but you are looking pale, so you’d better give your blood sugar a hit.”
