I shrug playfully. “You’ll have to keep them all. You don’t know which ones you need and which ones you don’t.”
“I look ridiculous,” he growls that sexy grumpy growl of his.
Now it’s my turn to shudder.
“I’ve always thought band-aids were the most underrated accessory.” I bite my bottom lip.
He presses away from the sink he’s been leaning against while he received necessary medical attention and turns around. His chest brushes mine but I don’t pull back.
“Perhaps you’d like some as well then?” he asks, his voice deep and tempting.
Yes please, I’ll take some of whatever he’s offering.
He grabs my hand holding the box of band-aids and my hand turns limp under his touch. He pulls a single band-aid out and opens it while keeping his eyes locked on mine with the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen.
Is it hot in this bathroom or is it just him?
He raises the band-aid, the back of his knuckles grazing my jaw as gentle as a kiss, and presses it right onto my lips.
“Trent!” I screech, but with the band-aid on my mouth it comes out like a garbled “Pnnt.”
He’s already out the door.
I shake my head as warmth floods my chest. The whole “not falling for him thing” might actually be a problem.
***
Stepping into the diner is like stepping back in time. To the fifties, I believe. I’m not all that familiar with the fashion and decor from each decade, but the checkered floor and cherry red leather booths combined with the pink and green walls feel very fifties.
The girl who seats us is wearing a pink poodle skirt and a white top. “Do you think I could pull off that look?” I ask Trent after she leaves.
He arches a brow. “What about my attire leads you to believe I could provide you with helpful fashion advice?”
I glance down at his navy-blue polo and cargo shorts. “You look fine to me.”
“Karli, you’re a beautiful woman, and you don’t need my opinion on a skirt. You’d be beautiful with or without one.” I’m caught off guard by his compliment, but my lips stretch wide as I wait.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly.
There it is.
“Trentley Bob, what would your mother say?”
The waitress approaches before Trent can offer a retort.
“Hi. How are you?” she says, her voice devoid of emotion. Well, that simply can’t do. Someone wearing a bright pink skirt must have some cheer to share.
“We are doing wonderful,” I say. “How are you? I love your earrings.”
She raises a brow and looks down at her pad. “What can I get you to drink? We have the best root beer in the west.” Her monotone sounds like a bad recording.
“I’ll have one,” I say. “But none for him. He’s driving.”
The waitress glares in response to my joke. It was pretty lame. I’ll give her that.
“I’ll have orange juice,” Trent says.
She hardly waits for him to finish before she rushes away from us. But she’s back one minute later, with the drinks and her notepad ready to take our order.
