Page 37 of Thanks for Coming Along
Eden couldn't help but drift back to those vivid memories of the Santa Monica Pier, where the tension between them had been palpable. She remembered how his eyes locked onto hers on The Sea Dragon, how her heart raced as they teased each other at the tattoo shop. Each memory sent a rush of heat through her body, the remnants of their encounters still lingering in her mind.
In her racing thoughts, she felt a rush of shame for having such an intense desire for someone who was essentially her paid companion. The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth. Her thoughts had consumed her so intensely that she didn't notice her foot catching the edge of an area rug beneath her dining table. Time seemed to slow as the plates of pasta fell with a crash that echoed through the room. The plates hit the floor, pasta splattering in all directions.
"Oh shit, I am so sorry," Eden said hastily, a spike of panic coursing down her spine. She didn't know who she was apologizing to. Eden immediately righted herself and rushed over to clean up the scattered plates, her movements almost frantic.
As she knelt to gather the ceramic shards, her mind flashed back to that awful night when Liam had yelled at her for dropping a dish and demanded she clean it up. Then, another memory surfaced. Her father’s stern voice reprimanding her for spilling paint on the marble floor. Her hands trembled as she picked up the pieces, smearing pasta sauce on her fingers, the weight of those moments pressing down on her.
“Eden, careful. You’ll cut yourself,” a voice called softly from behind, the sound growing closer.
“I’ve got it,” she murmured, her hands still shaking as she tried to gather the jagged shards.
Suddenly, a large, warm hand covered hers, stilling her frantic movements.
She looked up, startled, and met a pair of moss-green eyes. Her stomach flipped as his steady gaze settled on hers. Gently, he turned her hands over, uncurled her fingers, and removed the broken pieces from her grasp.
"Leave it. We can't risk you slicing your guitar-playing hands. How else can you make this album?" Ronan said, offering a gentle smile as he carefully pulled the shards from her palms.What about his hands? He needed them to film.Her heart continued to race. Ronan's reassuring words starkly contrasted the haunting memories of the past.
"Can you grab a broom and dustpan? I'll get this cleaned up,” Ronan said as Eden looked down at her hands, now empty and covered in sauce. Eden stood rigidly, looking over at Ronan as he collected more shards from the floor.
She walked to the kitchen and hurriedly washed her hands, vigorously scrubbing the sauce away. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She took deep, steadying breaths, determined to control her emotions. The thought of Ronan witnessing any more of her exposed vulnerabilities sent a shiver down her spine, strengthening her to gain some semblance of composure.
She grabbed a kitchen towel and dried her hands. A streak of red blood became visible on the white towel. She looked at her hands and saw she had a small gash in her right hand. She must have cut herself with a shard. She let out a shaky breath,shit. She heard a rattle of the plate shards being placed in the garbage can.
"Eden?" Ronan asked, his footsteps padding towards her. "You're bleeding. Do you have a first aid kit?"
Is this what it was like to be taken care of? Is this how it felt to be reassured instead of criticized? A man she had known for what, two weeks? She felt more at ease in a handful of days than almost two years with her ex or fifteen years with her father.
Walking over to a drawer, she retrieved the first aid kit with her non-bloody hand. Ronan took the pouch from her, unzipped it, and took out an antiseptic wipe, antibiotic ointment, and a band-aid.
"Let me see," Ronan's voice remained low and soothing as his gaze focused on her. Eden held her injured hand protectively against her body. His bright and intense eyes swept across her face with searching intent. It was like he was trying to untangle the convoluted mess of her.Good luck with that.
"Let me take care of you." Ronan's words were simple, a request that most people would accept without a second thought. But for Eden, it carried a weight far heavier than just words. Allowing someone to take care of her meant relinquishing control and putting her trust in another person's hands. Trust was a fragile concept in her world, easily shattered like the shards of plates on her dining room floor. She felt a flicker of willingness to let go, surrender, and allow someone else to help her. Well, not just someone… lethimhelp her.
She slowly lifted her wrapped hand between them. He gently took her hand in his, his other hand unwrapping the towel. His eyes darkened at the gash on her palm, blood pooling on the surface. His touch was gentle as he dabbed the wound with the towel. The panic in her chest was almost completely subsiding as she watched his light ministrations.
"This may hurt,” he murmured as he opened the antiseptic wipe. She almost laughed at the irony of that statement. This limbo they found themselves in, this uncertain dance between them, had the potential to hurt her. She had a nagging feeling about that from the moment she first met the man standing before her. She wished he had come with a warning label when she signed the contract to do this documentary.Ronan Murphy may induce symptoms of vulnerability, attachment, lack of coordination, and infatuation.
Gently, he swiped the cut with the antiseptic wipe, and a small burst of pain shot through her as the wipe's sting reached her wound. She let in a small intake of breath and reflexively stepped a little closer to him as his other hand squeezed her wrist slightly.
"Sorry," he whispered, his warm breath running over her ear onto her neck. A slight shiver ran through her body at the feeling. He applied the ointment over the cut and carefully applied the bandaid to her palm.
"Good as new," he said softly, his eyes admiring his handiwork. His torso brushed against her arm; they had gotten so close at some point. She could feel the warmth radiating off his body over her face.
"What? No kiss to make it better?" The words escaped her lips before she could reel them back in, her mind struggling to catch up with her impulsive mouth. That is what she does: deflect when things get too real for her.
In an instant, their eyes locked, and then his gaze darted to her lips. She noticed his pupils expanding, his grip on her wrist tightening unconsciously. Her heart raced as he slowly lifted her injured hand, his head bowing slightly. His warm lips tenderly brushed against the soft skin of her palm, and his eyes seemed to shimmer with heightened awareness.
"Happy?" His low, husky murmur sent shivers down her spine as he spoke against her palm, his warm breath brushing against her skin. The sensation reverberated through her entire body, causing her breath to catch in her throat.
Quickly swallowing, she found herself pinned by his intense stare, unable to look away. The hairs rose on the back of her neck as she imagined the warmth of his lips kissing a path up her thigh, sending a rush of heat through her veins. Her legs instinctively tensed in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing building between them. His hold tightened, unyielding. He lowered his face towards her, and her heart lurched in her chest. Her gaze was drawn to his lips. The anticipation tightened her skin. But then his face veered slightly, and she felt his warm breath against the side of her face.
"You're dangerous," he whispered, his voice deep as his lips gently brushed against her earlobe. A thrilling, electrifying tingle raced down her spine, leaving her breathless and slightly dizzy.
He reluctantly released his hold on her, his fingers sliding away from her wrist, leaving an indelible feeling of his touch. He grabbed the broom from the closet to finish cleaning up the pasta splattered on the floor.
She had made a conscious decision not to flirt with him anymore, yet here she was, flirting like a teenager who just hit puberty. This man did things to her, messy and complicated things. How many messes could be made in a single night? It looked like two, a mess on the floor and a mess in her mind.
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