Page 52 of Himbo Hitman
“So why can’t I hate you and be done with it?”
It’s a good question. Realistically, it would make sense if he hated me. Would be totally justified too. As much as I’d like us all to move on from this moment, I can reluctantly agree that it’s a pretty big moment to move on from.
I eye the wound again. It’s been stitched up, the top outside section of his ear is missing, and what’s left is healing but still doesn’t look great. “Have you been disinfecting that?”
St. Clare’s hand drops. “Ah, mostly. Lars has been looking after it for me.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Doctor?” he asks in complete disbelief. “I haven’t seen one.”
“That doesn’t seem smart.”
“Yeah, well, someone told me to go into hiding, so my decision-making skills were questionable at best that night.”
I take St. Clare gently by the shoulders and steer him toward the sofa up against the wall. “Sit.”
“Why?”
It’s a struggle to keep my patience. “Just do it.”
His knees fold underneath him, and he lands on one side of the couch, still eyeing me curiously. “And?”
“Where are the supplies?”
He points toward the cabinet right next to the wet bar, and I open it to find a little of everything. If I had my phone, I couldgoogle this shit, but until Lars is back, I’m flying solo, and I really want to get St. Clare all bandaged up quickly. I get the feeling Lars won’t be impressed with me wanting a quick glimpse.
Gauze is a given. Antiseptic wipes. Then, a small bandage with one of those little butterfly clips to hold it closed.
I half juggle, half carry it all over to the couch, then climb onto the cushion next to him. “Hold still. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Comforting.”
“A plus for effort though, right?”
“I think a more likely outcome is that I’ll end up missing the other half of my ear.” Then, St. Clare gives me a soft, secret smile, and something goes off-kilter in my head. “Why don’t we wait until you’re done before we start giving out ratings?”
All I can do is nod and try not to swallow my tongue. These reactions to him somehow catch me by surprise every time, and it’s an effort to avoid the flustering my brain tries to make take over.
His ear.
I’m focused on his ear.
His gross, ruined ear.
With an exhale as loud as a dump truck, I get to work cleaning up the area. I’m slow and careful not to hurt him, picturing his ear as delicate as a butterfly wing. Or Judge Judy’s patience.
St. Clare releases a breathy laugh. “Your tongue is poking out.”
“Huh?”
“Do you always do that when you’re concentrating?”
His question throws me because I wasn’t even aware I was doing it this time, so how am I supposed to be aware of it any other time? “No clue.”
“It’s cute.”
There’re those squirmies in my gut again. I almost drop the wipe but catch myself just in time, refocusing on his ear and only his ear. Definitely not on him calling me cute.
