Chapter 15 #2
A warm home and a hot meal sound so nice, especially since I didn’t bother to wear weatherproof boots outside, instead slipping on ones that are already soaked, but I’m stubborn, so I shake my head.
“I can take care of myself, thank you.”
He stares at me, and that flicker of a smirk has melted away. He lets out a breath, then shrugs, though I can tell my lack of agreement is annoying to him.
“Suit yourself.”
I watch him for another moment, expecting him to go back inside, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives me a shooing motion with his hand, and I roll my eyes before turning back around.
The next piece takes three hits, the second of which sends fragments flying off the stump, but by the third split, I think I’m getting the hang of it.
I should know better than to get too confident, though.
“Shit!” I shout, grabbing my hand and shaking it as my finger throbs.
It was pinched between the handle and the wood because my aim apparently sucks, and I can already feel my pulse in it.
I hop on one foot as if that’s going to help, then shake my hand out.
The cold made it even more painful, and I could feel cold tears pooling in my eyes.
Stupid freaking wood. Stupid freaking storm. Stupid freaking neighbor watching me.
“Jesus, Wren,” I hear, but barely register it, too lost in my pained dance. But the next thing I know, I’m scooped up into increasingly familiar, strong arms and being moved away from my backyard.
“What are you doing?!” There’s no response. In fact, the only sound is the sound of Adam’s shoes crunching on the soft snow.
Toward his house.
“Take me into my house, Adam. I’m fine!” I shout, slapping at his chest with my good hand.
He doesn’t respond.
Instead, he takes the four steps up to his back deck two at a time, despite the inches of snow coating them, until we’re at his back door.
“Let me go!” I shout, but he just holds me tighter, somehow managing to open the door without dropping me.
It’s impressive, but I’m annoyed.
“I’m serious, Adam. Put me down!”
He listens to me this time, but not the way I want.
Instead, he moves through his kitchen, setting my ass on the island, then moving to grab my hand.
He knows the exact one, I realize, not because it’s obvious, but because he was watching.
Gently, with reverence I don’t expect, he pulls off my gloves that are wet with melted snow before softly grazing his fingers over the small dent where my finger was pinched.
It will bruise, but otherwise should be fine.
It’s not so bad now that my hands are warming up, to be honest.
“Bend it,” he demands.
I glare at him. He glares back.
“I’m serious, Wren. I need to make sure you didn’t fucking break your finger.”
“If I had a broken finger, you’d know, Adam. I’d be screaming.”
“No, you wouldn’t, you’d be pretending it doesn’t hurt so as not to freak anyone out.” I glare at him, and he raises an eyebrow in a challenge I can’t fully argue because he’s not completely wrong.
I try anyway.
“I’m a baby when it comes to pain. I’d be bawling, trust me. He doesn’t break his glare, doesn’t smile, so I sigh but do as he asked, carefully bending my injured finger. It’s tight, but it doesn’t bring any extra pain, which seems like a good sign.
“Not broken,” he confirms under his breath, then runs a gentle thumb over the spot I pinched.
“You’re lucky.” He takes both of my hands between his, rubbing to warm them.
They get tingly with the warmth, but neither of us says a word until all of the feeling returns to my fingertips.
Once they’re warm, his hands shift again to look at the finger, turning it to look at other angles before he steps back. Instantly, I miss his warmth.
His hands move to the zipper of my jacket, sliding it down before helping me to shrug off the wet article of clothing and hanging it over one of the stools. Then he picks up my hand once more, staring at it as if the absence of my jacket would change anything.
It doesn’t.
“Stay here,” he says. I glare, but I nod. Now that I’m in warmth, I don’t have the energy to argue with him. My arms are tired, and I know tomorrow they’ll ache like I did one of those barre arm workouts Hallie loves to make us do.
After a moment, he returns with a white box that I quickly recognize to be a first aid kit. He digs through it before grabbing out a bandage.
“Adam, I don’t need a Band-Aid. It’s not bleeding or anything.”
“Humor me.” His voice is firm, and I shrug because, really, what is a Band-Aid going to hurt? Then I watch his big fingers peel the backing. It looks out of place, his big, calloused hands working on the small bandage. He has laser focus, though, as he gently wraps it around my much smaller finger.
“There,” he whispers, brushing a finger over the bandage I didn’t need. I give him a gentle look of gratitude, and my heart pounds as he lifts it, pressing his lips to the spot that still throbs quietly. “Was that so hard?”
“Was what hard?” I ask breathlessly.
“Letting someone take care of you.”
A million sassy responses fill my mind, but none of them come out. Instead, the truth fills the space between us.
“I don’t think it’s that hard when you’re the one doing it.”
His eyes go soft, and it’s clear that he really freaking liked that answer.
It’s even more obvious when his hand lifts and moves behind my neck, fingers ghosting along the skin there before sinking into my hair as he steps closer, taking up all of the space between my legs.
There are still snowflakes in his hair and quickly melting on his shoulder, but I can only focus on his face.
On the awe and desire written so clearly there.
“I’m gonna kiss you now, Wren,” he whispers, lips just an inch or so from mine. I can’t help but let a smile ghost along mine.
“Oh, you’re not going to make me beg for it?” I whisper in return. Our lips brush gently with the movements, and I breathe in his air. He smiles then, something I can feel more than see with him.
“Not this time. Not for this. We can save begging for later in the night,” he murmurs against my lips, and I gasp, ready to argue, but just then, Adam leans in fully, and his lips are on mine, cutting off any other thought.