Page 20 of Wallflower
Twenty minutes later, I say goodbye to Dad, and though it’s a lousy way to look at it and I feel bad for even thinking it, that phone call is the last item on the list of tasks I need to tick off every day. Even at home, early evening has always been my favorite part of the day because finally, I get some time for myself.
I sneak downstairs to wash up my dirty cutlery and refill my glass of wine. The fact that the kitchen light is on should have warned me, but I’m so eager to get back to my room that I’m halfway to the dishwasher before I notice Chord sitting at the island. His chin lifts and his eyes land on me before I can disappear.
“I’m sorry.” I hurry to drop my bowl and cutlery in the sink, then ditch the wine glass, too. “I didn’t know you were here. I’ll just—”
I risk another glance his way, only this time I see he’s got a first aid kit open at his elbow, there’s a ball of gauze in his fist, and he’s cleaning a long, nasty gash in his right forearm. I inhale sharply and cover my mouth, and the look he gives me is barely veiled amusement.
“Don’t suppose you know how to sew, do you?”
I give him a puzzled frown and drop my hand. “I do, actually, but what’s that got to do with…”
I trail off at the cool mirth in his expression, and when he shakes his head, I suddenly understand. I wouldn’t say I have a weak stomach, but the thought of stitching together muscle and skin makes me wish I hadn’t forced down that awful mushroom risotto. At my audible swallow, Chord smiles. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there, and I take an involuntary step forward.
“I’m joking,” he murmurs.
Without thinking, I cross the distance to get a closer look at the cut and only then realize how deep it is. “Oh, my God. What happened?”
Chord grunts. “I got careless with the fence wire.”
A fleeting glance out the glass doors confirms that although it’s summer and the days are long, the light started fading a while ago. “Have you been out there all afternoon?”
“Yep.”
I think again about how he doesn’t need to be fixing the fences at all, but even if I were brave enough to ask him about it, it’s not the kind of thing a practical stranger should care about. Instead, I say the next thing that comes to mind.
“Can I take you to a hospital or call someone or—”
“No.” His glance flickers toward me and away again as he concentrates on dabbing away the blood. “I’ve had plenty worse on the ice. I just need to clean it and cover it up, and it’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” I risk another look at it, then grimace at the gore. “It looks bad.”
Chord keeps his eyes on his arm, but I can see the way the corner of his mouth tips up, and I like the way it makes me feel. Warm and a little triumphant. “I’m sure.”
It doesn’t feel right to walk away, no matter that it’s the sensible option, so I ignore the way it makes my heart race and gesture at the first aid kit. “At least let me help you dress it. It’ll be hard for you to manage with only one hand.”
He says nothing for long enough that I start to feel foolish, but apparently, it wasn’t a totally stupid suggestion because he finally says, “All right.”
Chord sets aside the bloody gauze and pulls out the antiseptic and cotton wool, and I watch in helpless silence as he applies it. With most of the blood wiped away, I can see the gash isn’t as bad as I first thought. When he retrieves a stack of mismatchedbandages, he finds the appropriate size and hands them over without looking at me.
“Would you mind?”
“No.” I gently clear my throat and try to talk a little louder, but I’m only now realizing I need to touch him to do this, and my heart skips a beat. I can’t believe he’s letting me do this. “Of course not.”
I peel away the backing and pause to consider the wound, but I’m instantly distracted by the size and strength of Chord’s arms. Lean, ropey muscles stretch from elbow to wrist, smooth skin bronzed by the sun and dusted with fine dark hair. His hands are strong, too, and decorated with rich blue veins. Thick, calloused fingers, broad palms and neat, smooth nails marked with evidence of a day spent mucking about in the dirt.
He has a wide, pale scar down the inside of his left wrist, most likely the result of a game injury, and even that’s appealing. Everything about this man screams power, and I bet there’s not a thing he can’t do with these arms. These hands. These fingers.
“You might need a few,” he says.
I startle and try to cover it by tearing open another packet. “Yeah. It’s, uh… big.”
Warmth prickles underneath my collarbone. It’sbig?
Seriously, Violet. Even you can’t be this ridiculous.
My fingers tremble as I carefully apply the first of three large bandages over the cut, and even though I wince at the way they rub against the wound, Chord doesn’t flinch.
It’s hard to swallow as he watches me press the material to his arm, and though I’m going slow to get it right and not cause him pain, I might also be taking my time because I like the way my body buzzes when I’m next to him.
