Chapter 10 #2
“Every damn day,” he says, oh so matter-of-factly. “Now, hurry up before you drip blood on my boots.” He nods toward the inside.
I peek down and see blood running down my arm.
I step into the kitchen and I’m hit with the scent of baked cookies, so I'm sure the timer is about to go off. Grover hops to his feet and barks at the sight of Slade.
“Shhh! No barking. If you wake them, I will strip you of all your Poodle, and you will be an outdoor dog.”
His head cocks to the side as his nose works to inspect Slade.
I hurry to the sink and turn on the water, uncurling my hand under the stream. The burn tears through my flesh, and I wince.
I hear Slade unzip and drop his coat on a chair behind me, and then his large shadow appears over my shoulder. “How does it look?”
Every time I pull my hand from the water, blood pools in the center.
“I don’t know. It burns like hell.”
He pumps two squirts of soap into his palm and starts scrubbing. I pull my hand from the water to let him rinse his and return it as he grabs a towel.
“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.
“Are those—”
“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.
“So, what happened?” He finds an acceptable bandage and holds out his hand again, silently requesting mine.
I weigh keeping it all in and locked up tight, where I handle things on my own, but tonight, it doesn’t seem like that’s working so well.
I force my gaze to his as he delicately takes my hand again.
The patience and gentleness I find there tell me it might be ok to tell him.
He’s completely unrelated and uninvolved, but then again, I saw how this man judged me when I first took my car in.
He thought I was some rich bitch from wherever the upper side is in this city.
“You know how they say you win some, you lose some?” I slump as Slade grabs a tiny foil packet of antibiotic ointment.
He says nothing as he lifts my hand closer to his face.
“Well, I’m on a heavy losing streak.”
He tears open the packet and squirts it along my cut. The silence lingers as he places the bandage, and my skin warms with being vulnerable.
“It just. . .feels like every damn thing is hard.” I huff out a laugh, needing the blunt giant to say something . “Even making cookies for my kid’s preschool class,” I try to joke.
He smooths the sticky edges of the Band-Aid across my palm, and his thumb brushes back and forth across my wrist, inspecting his work. Those mysterious eyes drift up to mine, but then he releases my hand before I can tell what’s behind them.
He tosses the wrapper in the trash, and Grover’s head perks up as if Slade might give him a scoop of food.
Slade moves to grab his coat off the chair but pauses. “You’re studying statistics?” His brow furrows.
I glance at the textbook sitting on top of my laptop. “I don’t think you can call what I’ve been doing studying.” I hop off the counter, irritated that I laid all that out there, and he didn’t say a damn thing. “I mostly use it as a pillow.”
I grab the mixing bowl, carrying it to the trash to scrape out the cookie dough, but Slade takes it from me. He uses the spatula to clean the sides.
“You’re taking a class on statistics?” I hear the confusion in his tone.
“Yeah. I mean, not by choice. It’s a requirement. I can only handle two courses. I thought I’d get it out of the way, but with how things are going, I’ll be retaking it.”
He turns toward me, the bowl resting in his hand. “You’re in school?”
Why does he sound so surprised? “Yeeeaaah,” I say slowly, ready for all his questions to stop.
He glances at the book again and then at me. “You’re not a lawyer.”
I put my hands on my hips and then drop the sore one. “No. I’m a paralegal, but I want to be a lawyer. I was really lucky to be hired by Griffin Macavoy. He took a chance on me.”
His eyes rest on the table again, and then he sets the bowl in the sink, fills it with water, and washes it. When he’s done, he pulls on his coat. “Be careful with your hand.”
That’s it? That’s the end of the questions and conversation?
I stare at him. “Got it.” I salute, so completely unable to read this man, and it’s frustrating as hell.
It’s possible I see his lips twitch as he turns for the door. He reaches for the knob but stops .
“I think it’s when we’re held to the flame that we find out what we’re really capable of. You’re gonna be ok, Sarah.” His eyes hold mine, and I see so much but also so little.
Something swirls in my chest that begs to know everything in between.
He nods once. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He opens the door and disappears into the night. I stand there, not completely sure what to make of the deep insight he just dropped and left me with.
A tickle creeps up my throat, wanting desperately to believe him. I want to know that it really will be ok.
He said it so perfectly. I feel like I’m being held to the flame to see how long I’ll actually be able to last before I crash and burn. All I know is that I just hope I’m made of strong enough stuff to withstand whatever might come next.