“The bandage is just pulling a bit. I've got new gauze pads inside. I’m fine.”
“So if your wife would slit your throat, does that mean you like me? I can never tell if I irritate or amuse you. But I feel like that means you like me.” I flash him a grin, one that’s probably ill-advised and fueled by the alcohol.
“That’s what you get out of that?” He flashes me a look as he pulls out the first aid kit and the fresh box of gauze. He spreads the pads and tape out on the table alongside each other and gets to work.
“I mean, if it makes your wife violently jealous for you to be with me.” I grin even though I feel awkward when I see the look on his face. I’m terrible at this.
“Except, I don’t have a wife. And I’m not with you. I’m watching you so you don’t run off into the woods and break a fucking ankle in the process.” He cocks a brow at me as he washes his hands, something like wariness behind his eyes.
“Here, I can help with that.” I nod to his first aid kit and put my hands under the water. He passes me the bar of soap, our bodies practically touching as we lean over the old farm sink. I can feel the heat of him and hear his breathing, the hesitant way he’s watching me. The air around us feels like tinder, and I take a step closer to him as I set the soap back on his side of the sink.
“I think you’ve done enough,” he grumbles.
“I really am sorry. I thought you were one of Corey's guys, you know?” I give him what I hope is a remorseful look, even through the fog of my buzz. Whatever Dakota gave me was strong. I’d almost say she went a little heavy-handed on purpose if I didn’t know better. But then… Maybe I don’t know better.
“I know.” His eyes search mine for a moment, and then he abruptly separates himself from me, grabbing a towel and drying his hands as he walks back to the table.
“Are you ever going to forgive me?” I dry my own and shut the water off, trailing behind him to the table.
“Maybe when it heals.” It sounds honest enough, but I hate that it’s going to be a reminder to him.
He preps the new gauze and tape, cutting the strips and opening the edge of the gauze package so it’s ready. I kneel down in front of him and pull up his shirt carefully, exposing the old gauze and running my fingertips over the edge of the tape.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping,” I answer, like it should be obvious to him, as I start to pull on the tape. He winces and glares at me, his hand covering mine.
“Not like that you aren’t.”
“What?”
“Just rip it, in one quick motion. Taking it inch by inch like that… You trying to torture me again?”
“I mean… you seemed to like it the first time, given the way you—” I stop abruptly and risk a glance up at him as I grab thetape and get ready to pull. He watches me, a glint of caution in his eyes, but doesn’t say a word. I take the silence as permission to press the issue. “Do you like that? Pain, I mean? Or was it being tied up?”
“What happened to helping me with this?” he deflects.
So I rip the tape in one fast, smooth motion that tears it from his skin. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and his fingers tease the edge of the wound—back and forth—smoothing the spot where the tape ripped some of the fine body hair on his abdomen out by the root. I run my fingers along the other side, following a parallel path to try to soothe the tape burn.
“Tell me how I can help,” I say softly, slowly lifting my lashes to meet his.
He looks guarded as his eyes trail over me. Like an injured animal that doesn’t know whether to trust me or snap at me before I have a chance to hurt it again. I can’t say as I blame him, but the raw vulnerability disappears just as quickly as it came.
He stands abruptly, nearly knocking me over, and puts the second round of gauze on. He tapes it efficiently, one strip after another, while I pull myself up from my spot on the floor. My head is spinning from how quickly he’s moving.
“Levi,” I say his name softly and let my fingers trail over his exposed stomach as his shirt starts to fall back into place. He ignores me, cleaning up the mess on the table and repacking the first aid kit into its container.
He acts indifferent most of the time, but then there are rare moments, like this one, where it feels like he cares. Like he might see something in me, and I just want them to last longer than a fleeting minute. I can feel the tension between us, like the crackle of thunder in the distance right before a storm rolls in. I just need to get him to break it, lean into it, and give me some semblance of emotion beyond his practiced demeanor.
“We need wood,” he announces, tossing the first aid kit back into the cabinet and putting distance between us. “I’m going to go chop some down for the stove. Think you can refrain from running off if I don’t chain you to something?” He doesn’t even bother to look back at me.
“I won’t run off but…” I trail off. But what? I don’t have anything I can really say. He’s rejecting me. He’s just being kind enough not to say the words out loud. The embarrassment threatens to sear my skin with a deep blush, so I’m reaching for anything that covers up my misstep. “Do you want help? Chopping the wood, I mean. I just want to be useful around here. I don’t do well just sitting around.”
“I don’t need help. You can tidy things up in here. Make sure we have everything for dinner,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads out the door, letting it creak shut behind him.
I press my hand to my tumbling, nerve-riddled stomach as I look around for something to do. Anything to distract me from my mistake. I can’t believe I even hinted in that direction. I have no idea how many blatantly obvious rejections from him it’s going to take to get it through my head. But the problem is when I think of him, I don’t replay the embarrassment of having confessed my dreams to him or the way he looks at me like I’m a flimsy piece of cardboard that might fall apart in the rain.
No, instead my brain replays the way he felt underneath me at the convent, the singe of his lips on mine, the way his hands felt when he undressed me before my shower, and the way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice—like some part of me might be remarkable. But I have to realize that I’m blindly reaching for a connection to someone where there are only figments of my imagination in his place. I set to work on cleaning up the cabin, forcing myself into manual labor to forget the whole ill-advised attempt.
