Page 10 of Where It All Began
“There’s also something to be said for speed and efficiency over plodding,” Phoebe shot back.
“Let’s go,” he said gesturing toward the doorway.
“Oh, after you,” Phoebe insisted. She smirked at the tension in his shoulders as she filed out after him.
Chapter Six
He wasn’t exactly gentle when he put the bandages on her, but he didn’t slap them in place either. And maybe he did take a little extra time smoothing the adhesive down, but that was more to annoy her than it was to enjoy the spark of awareness he felt every time he touched her.
“If I were Man Allen, would you be bandaging me up?” Phoebe demanded. She swung her legs impatiently from her perch on top of the table.
He raised his gaze from her palms to her face. She was annoyed. Good. So was he. “Man Allen probably wouldn’t fuss about it nearly as much as you are.” John tightened the lid on the mercurochrome and boxed up the unused bandages.
“I’m not fussing!”
“Now you’re pouting,” he pointed out, and before he knew what he was doing, he’d flicked a finger over her lower lip, which was most definitely protruding.
It felt like the kind of static shock from wearing thick socks on carpet in the winter. A discharge of energy, a spark. Whatever it was, they both felt it. John took a quick step back and busied himself with his meager first aid supplies.
Phoebe remained—thankfully—quiet. She looked down at his handiwork on her palms but said nothing.
He cursed himself. Being attracted to Phoebe was not part of the plan. In fact, it was the worst thing he could do. He didn’t want to be sharing his home, his farm, his days with anyone. And the sooner Phoebe gave up and packed up, the sooner he could get back to his life just the way he liked it. Wanting her was out of the question.
He shoved the bandages and supplies back in the cabinet and looked at the clock on the wall. “Might as well have lunch while we’re in here.”
Phoebe slid off the table, suspiciously subdued. “Can I help?”
“If you promise not to get any blister pus in the sandwiches.”
She blinked those wide eyes at him. “I’m sorry. Did you just make a joke?” She took four slices of bread from the loaf on the counter.
John handed her two plates and opened the refrigerator. “No. I really don’t want you to get pus in my sandwich.”
“Is it because you aren’t around people very often that you don’t know how to be funny?” she asked.
“I like being alone. There’s no pressure to be anything other than what I am,” he said pointedly.
“And what does my presence pressure you to be?” she asked, accepting the sliced turkey and American cheese he handed her.
“A babysitter,” he said, before he thought better. “A host.”A polite human being who wears pants in the house even at night, he added silently.
Her full lips curved at their corners. “Mayo or mustard?” she asked.
He reached over her, careful not to touch her again and retrieved two glasses from the cabinet above her. “Both.” She was too pretty for his liking. He didn’twantto be attracted to her. She’d gathered her hair in a braid that hung down her back. Her jeans fit her a little too well around the hips and her shapely ass. Her t-shirt said Culture Club across the chest and accentuated all the right curves. He tried to focus on the words rather than what was under the cotton. Culture Club was probably some ridiculous philosophical, question-asking society at Penn State. A club designed to pick apart human beings and sort them into categories, John decided. Phoebe was probably president.
She opened drawers until she found his pitiful selection of utensils and pulled out a knife.
With Phoebe rummaging around his home, it was becoming painfully obvious that he really needed to take care of some basic shopping for the house. Something he’d put off because what did he care if he only had one set of sheets, three mismatched towels and a handful of forks? It was another thing to add to the list of things he resented about her. Her presence was a constant reminder of just how far behind he was in making his house a home.
“Do you ever answer any question with more than one syllable?” she asked conversationally as she slathered the bread with mayonnaise.
“Do you ever do anything besides ask questions?”
She leveled a frosty look at him and set the knife down with a clatter. “I would like to be writing my thesis, but it’s a little difficult withoutanswers!”
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Answers, John. I want answers. Real ones. Not just ‘yes, no, because.’”
