Chapter 3 #2
Okay. Now I actually stopped. What the hell was I doing?
I was in a hotel bathroom with a stranger, and I was making him howl in pain with a freaking showerhead?
I had it on some kind of pulse setting, the jets feeling like tiny needles against the top of my hand…
Yes. He was probably right. I was torturing him.
And his foot was…bright red. Like, burnt-to-a-crisp-in-the-sun red.
Erythema with slight oedema visible on the pad of the sole, risk of second-degree burns, and if not kept clean…
I changed tactics. I stood myself up, still with his leg in a firm grip and changed the setting on the showerhead, pushing buttons on the weird thermostat until I had a soft flow of cold water running over the back of my hand.
Then I gently sat myself down on the floor with his foot on my lap and softly swayed the water over the sole of his foot.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“Yes. Sorry. You’ve got severe sunburn on your sole.”
“No shit.”
“Kind of shit,” I agreed. “Please let me cool it down, then I have some burn gel and perhaps a painkiller to take the edge off. I wouldn’t walk on this one today, if you can help it.”
“Okay.” He wasn’t even looking at me, just sitting there on the toilet as I got my shorts soaked from the shower. Sat in a puddle of water.
In a hotel bathroom.
What the fuck, Universe?
“So…” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I promise I am usually better than this. I’m like…responsible and adult.”
“I’m forty…tomorrow.” I smiled weakly, hoping to lift the mood. “On holiday with my parents because I can’t get my shit together.”
Slight truth.
“Turned forty-one at Christmas. Still get drunk and hungover and fall asleep on other people’s deckchairs. Honestly, I was… Fuck.”
Another sore patch as I moved the water over his heel.
“That water is fucking cold, I can’t actually feel my toes now.”
“A good sign. Fifteen minutes to go.”
Another tear rolled down his cheek. I didn’t blame him. I knew how sore his skin must be. “It’s eleven-ish in the morning, sun came out, what, five hours ago? You’ve been baking for hours, no wonder.”
“Not on purpose.”
I wasn’t being cruel, just stating facts, and he was.
Damnit. Crying.
He was a patient. An involuntary one, but what were his options here?
“I can get you to reception, and they can probably send for a medic. Not sure what the options are out here in the middle of the ocean, but I think, professional opinion only, that if we can get this cool, keep applying burn gel, top up the painkillers and ensure you keep your foot off the ground and hope for no major blisters? Then you’ll be fine. ”
Another howl, as I moved the shower jets over his skin. His leg was shivering now, prickles all over his arms. At least he was dressed, and I could smell it now. The stench of alcohol permeating his skin. Sweat. Fear. All normal things.
“I need to pee,” he whined.
“You should probably try to shower.”
“Not in the cold.”
I placed the showerhead on the ground, letting the water still flow, then I got up. Soaked. Drenched, really. I didn’t mind; I’d given him almost ten minutes of cold water, done what needed to be done. The guidelines were at least twenty, but he was an adult. And I was not his keeper.
“Have a shower,” I urged. He looked like he needed one, and it would make him feel better.
Perhaps I needed one myself. Maybe not.
I walked out, leaving him sitting on the toilet seat, staring at the wall.
Perhaps if I had stopped to think, I would have made better decisions.
Instead, I quickly changed my clothes, straightened the bed, and got my bag up on the top, rummaging through my first aid kit.
Probably a little more advanced than needed, but I carried spares of Dad’s angina medication, plasters, Mum’s migraine medication and my old inhaler.
Yeah. I didn’t really need it anymore, but things like this gave me peace.
Whatever happened, I could deal. I also had a sealed bottle of medical-grade burn gel, and I measured out two pills in a plastic cup.
“Any allergies, mate?” I shouted to the closed bathroom door. The shower was off now. Silence.
“You okay in there?”
“Yeah. No. No allergies.”
“Got painkillers. Get out here when you’re done, and I’ll sort your foot.”
“I’m, like…”
The door opened. And here he was. A Greek god of a man in a skimpy towel. Like this was some kind of sitcom and I was the obvious comic relief. My jaw hanging slack, and I was probably drooling. Or maybe not.
“Come lie on the bed,” I suggested, like I was producing some kind of…
porno. Him limping awkwardly, trying to walk on the edge of his heel, whining with every step.
I got up and grabbed his arm, giving him the support he obviously needed.
Still, everything seemed an effort. Unless he had a really low pain threshold and was pulling my leg here.
Doubted it. The tears still running were proof of that.
“I have co-codamol on prescription. Absolutely shouldn’t share it, but in these circumstances, I’m willing to give you two and see if it helps.
I sit down a lot in my job, and my sciatica can be debilitating.
Those little pills keep me mobile when I need it.
It’ll take the edge off the pain. Have you taken co-codamol before?
The side effects can be…” I stopped. Because I was not in the clinic.
And he was definitely not my patient, standing there gripping that towel like his life depended on it, confliction all over his face.
“Thank you.” He let his bum land on the bed, grabbing his leg to move his foot up onto the bed. Me? The fool that I was? I took a pillow from the headboard and placed it gently under his foot, sitting myself down on the edge of the bed, two small pills in my outstretched hand.
“What if these are drugs, and you’re about to knock me out and harvest my organs or something?”
“Fair assumption.” I had to smile. “My mum is a great decoy. Lures innocent men into my claws. Don’t mind the bloodstains, the guy last night didn’t make it.”
At least he smiled as I held up the bottle of burn gel, the label clearly visible to him, and he gave me a little nod.
“You can google me,” I suggested.
“Don’t even know your name.”
“Noah,” I grumped, then had to grab his leg as he twitched in pain. Yes, the gel was cold.
“Fucker,” he gritted out.
“No, Fairweather. Noah Fairweather. Qualified doctor and all that.” I had to smile, because he was…
I was…delusional.
“Posh name.”
“Not really. We’re old farmer stock. Something like that. Dad was into researching our ancestry for a while.”
“Riley,” he replied, sucking in another deep breath as I covered his heel in gel. “Not posh. Military family, army dad, got sent to boarding school at eight and went to uni, and here I am. Head teacher at a really nice school.”
“Interesting.” I smiled. He did too, if just for a second. “There. Have a break, maybe a nap. Let the painkillers kick in.”
“I should go,” he suggested, trying to raise his foot off the pillow.
“Wearing what shoes?” I looked around. Like I hadn’t already clocked his lack of them.
“Surely I can call the…whatever. Buggy service.”
“Yeah, and they will carry you to your room. For heaven’s sake, Riley. Be sensible. Chill out for a bit.”
“Still worried you’ve just drugged me.” He looked it too, sat there, the painkillers still in his hand.
This was me. Slightly underprepared for what my mother’s ideas would throw at me. Not that I thought she had plonked Mr Riley here on my patio, and blowtorched his foot, but yeah. I got up, picked up a bottle of water from the bedside table, opened it up and held it out to him.
“I’m going to go sit outside and read my book. Have a nap, Riley. Let this settle. Then I’ll help you back to your room, and we can both relax. That sound fair?”
“If I’m still alive…” he grumped.
I smiled. Because he was… Fuck. He was truly beautiful and gorgeous and way out of my league.
That chest on him? Small dark nipples on smooth skin.
Firm. A smatter of dark hair down his legs.
Beautiful. Those ringlets were just mesmerising, and he had pouty lips and his nose was maybe a little big and fuck.
Fuck me, sideways and all that. He was also injured and helpless and naked on my bed.
The towel barely covered his assets. I had no right to even think of his assets.
I had no right to stare at his perfectly messy hair, the tips still wet from that shower.
Nor had I any right to take in his nipples, his chest, nor that little tummy on him. I wanted to stroke it. With my tongue.
I hope he didn’t notice the breath I sucked in as I tried to compose myself.
The bag from the bed went on the floor, and I took the corner of the duvet and flipped it on top of him.
“Sleep,” I demanded.
Then I grabbed my book and walked outside.