Chapter 19
19
S imon was dumbstruck. Carlisle was out the back door and making her way angrily across the deck before he even realized what he had done.
Fuck Fuck Fuck. That was not what he wanted.
She was moving fast, her tackle box in hand, her determination obvious by the heavy footfalls on the wood. But she didn't stop to pick up her bowl or any of the other things she’d brought. Maybe she was too mad to see it.
Grabbing the door just as it slammed shut behind her, Simon pushed his way through. He didn’t even know what he was doing, only that he couldn’t let her just walk out of his life.
“Wait!” he called out. Why didn't she stop moving?
He chased her down and did the first and only thing he figured he should do. He called out, “I'm sorry.”
“About what?” She finally stopped, turned around and probably would have folded her arms at him had she not been carrying the unwieldy box.
“For being a dick.” It was a test. He knew it didn't matter if he was sorry, or maybe just that it mattered more that he knew what he'd done. He knew that much. “I— I?— ”
Carlisle raised her eyebrows at him, the pretty arch now highlighting that her eyes were stormy, her expression still mad. She was right to be.
When he didn't get any further words out, she turned around and stalked away again.
The thought that she might make it all the way back to her place and not have changed her mind spurred him to action. “I don't like talking about the stitches on my back because—” He paused, gulping a breath, noticing that she hadn't turned around to face him, but she had stopped.
“Because I was being an idiot when I got them.” She didn’t move, so he confessed to her back, to her shapely ass, to her shoulders, clearly rigid with her anger. “I was— I was trying to flirt with you! And I did it while I was on the ladder, and it was the stupidest thing I could have done. It's bad enough that I did it, but now with the stitches— Each time you ask about them you’re reminded—every damn day—of what an idiot I am . . . was .” He corrected himself quickly.
Her shoulders heaved, and she slowly turned to face him. The corner of her mouth twitched. Though the vise on his heart didn't release, it loosened just a little. “Please come back. I'll be a grown up. You can take the stitches out.”
She didn't move. Carlisle Weaver just stared at him as if she were making a decision, and he wasn't sure what else he could say.
That wasn’t actually true . There were tons of things he could say, but most of them he wouldn't. He did add, “I was really looking forward to our date tomorrow night.”
“Me too,” she admitted in a soft whisper, and he realized then that he was out here, chasing her down, admitting his own stupidity, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way. About anyone.
Sure, they’d kissed a few times. He’d done more with other women, but no one had stolen his breath or made him want to try a vegetarian meal or wish she was just sleeping next to him. He wanted to believe she would breathe easier next to him. He had never asked her a pointed question to make her talk. He’d played no games. And he had no idea how to win her back. “Can I get a do over? Come back inside. I'll let you take the stitches out. Please don't treat me like the idiot that I am.”
“I don't think I was treating you like an idiot,” she said.
Good point . “I don't think you were either. I was just feeling like one.”
Still, she didn't move.
“Please. ” It was the only card he had left that he was willing to play.
She sighed, as if this was maybe against her better judgment. But she motioned for him to turn around and lead the way. “Okay,” she said, if a bit reluctant. “Go.”
It wasn't the enthusiastic response he was hoping for, but right now it was better than where he'd been. He would take it.
Simon crossed his deck, listening to her soft steps in the grass, knowing she was behind him. He wasn’t quite ready to breathe a sigh of relief, but he was at least aimed the right direction.
Opening the back door and holding it for her, he attempted to make up for being an ass earlier. She looked at him as she passed through into the short hallway that ran to the back door. “You know, I never thought you were the idiot. I thought this was my fault.”
“Why?” He was confused. The whole issue had been him ogling her when he should have been paying attention to the work.
But she was past him, moving to the small table in the hallway. The one he'd bought the other day but still didn't begin to look like actual furniture. She was checking through her kit after setting it down. “I was constantly talking to you, and I was the one who was distracting you while you were on a ladder. I know better. I've worked in an ER.”
She looked up at him, regret in her expression. “Honestly, the injury you got was absolutely nothing compared to what could have happened.”
Well, he’d still had to go to the ER and let the doctor wash it out. He’d had to sit through several layers of stitches and more. Still, “It wasn't you.”
Simon hoped this could be the end of it, so he changed the subject. “You're not taking out the inside stitches, are you?”
“No.” But once again, she wasn't looking at him. She was digging through her supplies, asking for a tissue or paper towel and starting to lay out what she needed. That apparently included a wicked sharp pair of little scissors. He wasn't a fan. He fetched a paper towel for her, and she laid it out like a tiny surgery.
“Turn around,” she told him, her voice so no-nonsense that he almost turned around and put his hands on the wall as if he were being patted down. It might have been funny except he'd been a complete butthead just a few moments ago. As he turned around, he realized he needed his hands to lift the back of his shirt and hold it in place.
“This might sting a little,” she warned. “They’ve been left too long, and the skin has probably grown over the stitches.”
“I thought the skin wasn't supposed to grow into the stitches,” he countered, but didn’t move. A good thing as he felt the tug of her loosening one. Then he felt cold metal, probably the scissors, and a slide along his skin that gave him a shiver.
“First one’s out,” she announced.
“It’s not bad.” It didn't hurt , he thought, but it was gonna give him the willies.
“The skin doesn’t grow over them,” she said, but he could feel her breath along his spine where she leaned down and took a good look at the evidence of his foolishness .
He felt the tug on the second stitch. Not as bad as the first .
“Unless you leave them in too long,” she finished what she was saying.
He could extrapolate the rest of it: and you're a dumbass. He was grateful she didn’t say it.
Simon held his tongue. This was on him. He should have gone back to the doctor's office. They could have taken it out. He wouldn't have had to go through this. So now, making nice and keeping her from leaving, he sucked it up. Carefully, he held the edges of his shirt, exposing just the one cut.
Another stitch came out, then another. If he remembered, he had eight or ten stitches there. It was not a small cut. Hence why she had been so insistent that he go to the emergency room in the first place.
“The scar looks great, but you've got a little bit of frankensteining here.”
He almost opened his mouth to ask what she meant and then realized the stitches were still showing on his skin, looking like frankenstein scars. Probably because he'd waited too long. The fall, the cut, the scarring now, it was all his fault.
A few moments later, she stepped away. Simon didn't move, he didn’t want to do the wrong thing, wasn't ready to be a dumbass again.
“Trash?” she asked from behind him, letting him know she was finished.
Turning, he finally dropped the edge of his shirt and stood looking at her. She was beautiful, holding the wad of paper towel, looking at him like she wasn’t sure if he was a dumbass or not.
He held his hand out assuming his stitches were in there. Gross . He was not built for the ER, but he headed into the other room to chuck them into the trash. The lid fell shut, hopefully closing the chapter on all of this.
Back in his hallway that ran from the front door to the back and opened into the living space, he found her still at the little table, carefully rearranging things. She pulled out a baggie and put her tools into it. Despite the fact that he had no open wounds and there was no blood, it looked like she was setting things aside to re-sterilize them or such.
She was a professional. He knew that and he should have given her more credit. Only he didn't want a professional, he wanted a girlfriend. He wanted Carlisle.
She closed the box and tucked the latch down with a small click. Turning, she picked it up in one fluid motion, but he stepped in front of her, blocking her carefully. Slowly, he took the handle from her fingers and set it back on the table.
“Wait,” he said. “I want to pick you up tomorrow night like we planned.”
She took a slow breath.
“Can you forgive me?” He needed to know. His stitches were out, the whole stupid incident was hopefully over.
She shook her head back and forth and up and down, but she said, “Yes. I was really looking forward to it.”
“Me too.” His confession was soft. It was hard to tell her that he didn’t want her to leave, that he’d been planning the night all week like a lovesick fool.
She hesitated just the slightest moment. Carlisle didn't reach for the box.
Did she move toward him? Simon couldn't tell.
He moved toward her, his hands reaching out of their own accord, touching her palms. He traced the smooth skin there, down to her soft fingertips where he laced his fingers with hers. Hopefully, she would stay for just a moment longer.
Her eyes locked onto his, hopeful.
He tugged her closer, leaning down, unable to stop himself from moving into her.