Chapter 13 #2
I’m still slightly stunned, and he sounds so authoritative; it feels only natural to follow him up the stairs and into his bedroom, then into his washroom. In other circumstances, I might look around—I’ve never been in his bedroom before—but I’m focused on my finger.
“It’s not very deep,” I say. “Just bloody.” I don’t deal particularly well with blood. Not that I’m going to faint at the sight of it, but…yeah.
Bennett busies himself with taking first aid supplies out of the cabinet. Now that I know where everything is, I could handle this on my own, but I don’t say that. I like having his attention on me.
He washes his hands, then gently nudges my uninjured hand out of the way and applies pressure to the wound.
He’s so close to me now, and it’s drawing more of my focus than my injury.
I can see his individual eyelashes. The rise and fall of his chest. Such ordinary things, but they seem extraordinary because they’re his.
“It looks like the bleeding has stopped,” he says. “I’m going to clean it, all right?”
Once again, I don’t tell him that I can do this myself; I just allow him to hold my hand under the faucet. My breaths come a little fast, which doesn’t escape his notice.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“I don’t think you lost that much blood, but—”
“Bennett, I’m fine.”
I bite my lip. God, why did I snap at him? He’s being kind, but I guess that’s the problem. Watching him tend to me is rather hot, and my body can’t help reacting.
“Is something else going on?” he asks, his tone gentler than usual.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I cut myself because I was staring at your arms.”
“I see.”
I want to observe his expression, but at the same time, I’m scared. Cautiously, I open my eyes, and to my relief—and exasperation—his face is inscrutable. I don’t quite understand this man…but I wish to.
He applies a little petroleum jelly to my injured finger, then wraps a bandage around it. I try to calm my breathing as he touches me, but it’s difficult.
“There,” he says quietly.
I turn my hand this way and that, admiring his handiwork.
Then I meet his gaze, and it’s almost too much.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. Large, deft hands that were touching me just a moment ago; I’m sure they could caress me in many wonderful ways.
“I can stay up here while you finish carving your pumpkin,” he says, “so you’re not…distracted.” A hint of a smile plays on his lips.
It’s far too appealing. I need to get a hold of myself.
I reach out and unroll his left sleeve. This way, his forearms won’t be visible. That ought to help…except now my fingertips are brushing his skin. The intimacy makes me light-headed.
I do the right sleeve more efficiently than the left sleeve, minimizing contact. Still, there’s a hitch in my breathing.
He shakes his head and starts undoing my work. “No. Sleeves stay up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to get pumpkin guts on them. So, you have a choice.” He places a single finger under my chin and tips it up. It’s almost more than I can take, and I lean closer. “Either I stay upstairs while you finish your pumpkin, or you have to promise not to look at my arms. At all.”
Does this man know what he’s doing to me? I want him to slide that finger down my neck and follow its path with his mouth. I want him to show as much attention to every part of my body as he showed to my minor injury. I’m practically squirming against the counter, which is the perfect height for…
In a flash, I close my hand over his, and his eyes widen. Only slightly, but it’s enough to make me feel victorious.
He’s not immune to me.
But this can’t happen. He’s my ex-boyfriend’s brother. I’ll just keep repeating that to myself—silently, of course—while he sits beside me.
Clifton’s brother. Clifton’s brother.
“I promise not to look,” I say, lowering my hand and releasing his.
“Are you sure?”
“You really think you’re that irresistible?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, which only makes him more attractive. He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of whatever he was going to say. He compresses his lips into a thin line, and I exhale unsteadily.
When he walks out of the washroom, I try not to feel disappointed. This is for the best.
Back in the kitchen, I devote all my energy to carving my pumpkin’s second star-shaped eye, followed by its wide smiling mouth and small nose. By sheer will, I manage not to look at Bennett even once, but we do talk.
“Can you give me a hint about the costumes?” he asks.
“I’ll tell you a few of my rejected ideas.” I pause for effect. “Barbie and Ken.”
“Not very creative.”
“A stork and a baby.”
“I’m afraid to ask how that would have worked.”
“I would have been the stork,” I say, “and you would have been the baby, naturally.”
“If you say so.”
“I also considered a two-person llamacorn costume.”
Although I don’t look up, I can feel his glare on me. My skin tingles.
“I told you,” he says, “that I won’t be the back end of any animal.”
“You would have been the front end. Besides, a llamacorn isn’t an animal. It’s a fantastical creature.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, those are your hints.”
“I’m not sure those qualify as hints.”
I shrug. “All will be revealed on Friday.”
“I can’t wait,” he deadpans.
I can’t wait, either. Because on Friday, I’ll spend a lot more time with him than usual. He’ll come home at a respectable time to hand out candy, and then we’ll go to Nautilus together.
Absently, I run my thumb over the bandage on my finger and recall what it was like when he tended to me.
I think I’m in trouble.