Page 11 of Holiday Star
A straight nose.
Golden hair, turning darker from the thin trickle of blood that stains his hairline and runs down past his closed eyes to his razor-sharp cheekbones.
That’s when I realize who I just knocked unconscious.
It’s Caleb.
Caleb Freaking Lawson.
5
Igasp, my hands flying up to my cheeks.
Crap.
I just assaulted America’s favorite movie star.
Before I can fully freak out, I slip into doctor mode. Dropping to my knees next to him, I slide my fingers under his jaw, searching for a pulse.
It’s there. His heartbeat is strong and steady.
Thank goodness.
Next, my hands move up to his head, palpating the goose egg that’s swelling from where I hit him. As I lean closer to inspect the cut, some detached part of my brain notices that he smells nice. That spicy smell I noticed at the wedding, like cinnamon mixed with a hint of nutmeg.
Caleb wakes as I prod his wound, his breath becoming a hiss of pain sucked in through his teeth. He raises a hand and pushes my arm away.
“Wha...” A single aqua blue eye cracks open to gaze at me blearily. “Wh—what happened?”
Air gusts out of me in a sigh of relief.
He probably has a concussion, but I still don’t know how bad.
I sink back onto my heels, watching closely. “What’s your name?”
“Huh?” The other eye opens. His forehead wrinkles, obviously confused. “Gwen, it’s me. Caleb. We’ve met before?” He’s looking at me like I’m the one who got bonked on the head.
It’s totally inappropriate, not the right moment at all, but a little part of me, fourteen-year-old me, does a mental fist pump in the air and thinks,Caleb Freaking Lawson just said my name for the first time ever.
Fourteen-year-old me is so dumb. Twenty-eight-year-old me iswaysmarter. She chastises her younger self.Who cares if he knows your name?
I play it cool, waving my hands dismissively. “Yeah, I know. This is an exam. I’m trying to figure out if you’re neurologically intact.”
Those wrinkles in his forehead deepen. “I’m…what?”
“Neurologically intact. If your brain is working right. I need to ask you a series of questions. What year is it?”
His face screws up like I’ve asked him something hard. “2023?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling you, I guess.”
I nod once, inspecting his pupils to make sure they’re the same size.
Caleb tries to sit up, but I push him back. I’m not done yet.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” I put up two fingers, like I’m making a peace sign.
