“Let’s see.”
I face him, holding it out, but blood floods to the surface. He rips off a paper towel, and I take it, pressing it to the wound.
The oven timer begins to chime, and Slade glances at it.
“Here.” His large hands grip me around the waist, and he hoists me onto the counter next to the mixing bowl as if I weigh nothing.
Well, ok then. I stare at him.
“Keep it up and put pressure on it. We need the bleeding to stop enough so we can get a good look at it.”
Grover, utterly unimpressed with our guest, drops to the floor to lick his paws while I watch the calm, assertive man turn off the timer. He folds the towel in half, reaches into the oven, and places the sheet on the stove. I lean to get a peek at the cookies, and my body slumps, wanting to melt to the floor and stay there until one damn thing goes right.
“Arethose—”
“I knnooowww!” I whine, my head falling back into the cupboard. “They look like boobs! I’m going to send my kid to preschool with cookies that look like they belong at a bachelor party.”
“How did you—”
“They were supposed to have chocolate kisses on top, but I accidentally grabbed the white chocolate.” I hold my hand to my chest, pressing my thumb against my palm. “I thought it would be fine.”
Slade stares at them. “Sarah, they really do look like boobs.”
Why does he have to confirm it?! “Why can’t you just say, ‘It’ll be fine, Sarah. Five year olds don’t even know what boobs look like.’”
He twists, and his piercing green eyes meet mine under his hat. “Do you want me to lie to you?”
The seriousness in his tone grips my stomach while I contemplate his question. “No,” I say in absolute defeat.
“You can’t send those to school.”
I groan. “Why can’t just one freaking thing be easy?”
He taps the button to turn the oven off and then moves in front of me. “Let me see your hand.” He holds his out, waiting for me to release mine. His long, calloused fingers extend toward me, and I notice his stained cuticles.
I peek up at him, and I find him watching me. Those emerald eyes run over my face. I let my hand fall into his warm palm, and his fingers curl loosely around it.
I pull the bunched paper towel away, and he raises my hand to carefully inspect it.
There’s a clean two-inch slice across the pad of my palm, and it burns and aches open to the air.
Slade’s thumb rests against my wrist. “It’s a nasty cut, but it doesn’t look too deep.” His eyes flick to mine. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“It’s fine. See.” I gesture to my hand, where the blood is finally starting to clot. He stares at me, a human boulder firm in place. “Above the refrigerator.”
He releases my hand, and the warmth from his is immediately gone. It’s strange watching my carpool buddy roam my small kitchen. He pulls the kit from the cabinet and sets it beside me.
“Were you beating the hell out of the trash can over these. . .booby cookies?” He rummages through the wrapped bandages.
“Booby cookies? Really?”
“What would you call those?”
He has a point, but I will not concede.
I lift my chin. “An experiment,” I say with complete confidence because sometimes you’ve got to go with what you’ve got, and I’ve been doing a hell of a lot of that for some time now.
His eyes meet mine, and I swear I see his lips tilt upward the slightest bit despite his short beard attempting to hide it.
