Chapter 5
I yank open the kitchenette cabinets, searching for the first aid kit while blood drips steadily from my cheek onto the counter.
“Quit hovering,” I snap at Caleb, who’s standing way too close behind me, like some kind of overprotective bodyguard. “I can handle a few scratches.”
“Those aren’t scratches, Eve. They’re deep cuts. The one near your temple is still bleeding pretty heavily.”
I slam another cabinet door shut. “Where the hell is the first aid kit in this place?”
“Try the one above the microwave.”
“I know where to look!” But I check anyway, and of course he’s right. I grab the white plastic box and set it on the counter with a sharp thud.
“Your wounds look bad,” he says, his voice tight with displeasure. “You should probably get stitches for that one on your cheek.”
I pull out the small round mirror from behind the first aid kit door and angle it to see the damage. My reflection shows three angry red scratches across my left cheek, one deeper cut near my hairline, and what looks like the beginning of a spectacular bruise forming around my eye.
“It’s fine,” I say, dabbing at the blood with a paper towel. “Just needs a bit of bandaging.”
“Fine?” His voice is clipped. “You look like you went ten rounds with a wildcat!”
“Thanks for the ego boost. Really helpful right now.” I reach for the antiseptic, but his hand shoots out to grab my wrist.
“Let me help.”
“I don’t need your help.” I try to pull away, but his grip is firm. “I can bandage my own face, thanks.”
“You can’t even see half the cuts properly.” His tone is impatient, and he’s not letting go of my wrist.
“I said I’m fine!”
But he’s already moving, stepping closer until I’m trapped between his body and the counter. His blue eyes are hard, annoyed. “You’re not fine,” he says curtly. “That psycho could’ve really hurt you.”
“But she didn’t.”
“She could have.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “And then what?”
“Oh, please. Don’t go all white knight on me now, Reynolds. I had the situation under control.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “Control? What control? Have you seen your face?!”
“That was a cheap shot! I would have handled her if—”
“If what? If she’d given you a formal invitation to fight?” His voice drips with sarcasm. “Real life doesn’t work that way, Princess.”
I glare at him. “Stop calling me that!”
“Stop being so stubborn!” He reaches for the antiseptic, his movements efficient. “Hold still.”
“I can do it myself—”
“Shut up, and let me help you.” The words come out flat and annoyed.
I’ve never seen Caleb this tense. He’s trying to act annoyed, but there’s something in the way he won’t let go of my wrist, the way he positioned himself between me and the door.
“Fine,” I bite out. “But make it quick. I don’t have all day.”
“Neither do I,” he mutters, but his hands are surprisingly careful as he opens the antiseptic bottle.
The scent of his cologne mixed with the pungent smell of the disinfectant fills the small space between us, and I notice he’s standing closer than necessary, like he’s still ready to shield me from something.
“This is going to sting,” he says, his voice softer despite his obvious annoyance.
“I can handle—” The antiseptic hits the cut, and I hiss through my teeth. “Son of a bitch!”
“I warned you.” His brows knit together. “This one’s deeper than it looks.”
“Your bedside manner needs work.”
“Good thing I’m not a doctor, then.” But he’s being incredibly gentle as he cleans the cut, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Hold still.”
“I am holding still!”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting, I’m breathing. Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you.”
“Stop flinching,” he snaps.
“It hurts!”
He pauses, looking down at me with those blue eyes that seem less cold now, more frustrated than angry. We’re standing so close I can see the tension in his jaw, feel how carefully he’s controlling his movements.
“You’re impossible,” he says, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Says the man who’s hovering over me like a mother hen.”
“I’m not hovering.” But he doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans closer as he examines the cut near my temple. “This needs a butterfly bandage.”
“Since when do you know about butterfly bandages?”
His hands still for just a moment. “Since I have a sister who likes to get into physical altercations when she can.”
The admission surprises me, and something in his voice makes me look at him more carefully. There’s worry there, hidden beneath the impatience, in the way his fingers linger just a little too long as he tends to each cut.
“There,” he says finally, stepping back but not very far. “Try not to get mauled by any more unhinged ex-girlfriends today.”
“I’ll do my best.” I touch the bandages gingerly.
He gives me a long look. “I didn’t realize that you actually got involved in Joshua’s situation. You should have known better. These sorts of things get messy very fast.”
I would say something nasty, but he’s right. I don’t have to like it.
“I was trying to help a friend.”
“You mean extort him?” Caleb snorts.
I shrug, taking the bandages from his hands and putting them back in the first aid kit box. “Yes, well, I learned my lesson.”
He takes the box from me, putting it away.
“Thanks,” I mutter, the word scraping against my throat like sandpaper. Being grateful to Caleb Wilder feels like swallowing glass, but even I’m not rude enough to ignore what he just did.
“Don’t mention it.” His voice is dry as dust. “Seriously. Don’t.”
I’m already turning to leave when his next words stop me cold.
“So, are you pressing charges?”
I glance back at him, incredulous. “Of course I’m pressing charges. That lunatic just tried to claw my face off with a broken bottle. What kind of question is that?”
“Just checking. Wanted to make sure you weren’t going soft on me.”
“Trust me, Reynolds. Soft is the last thing I—” My words die as I notice his coat for the first time since coming inside. The expensive wool is completely ruined, splattered with what looks like red paint from the bottle Melissa threw. “Oh, shit. Your coat.”
He glances down at the damage with maddening nonchalance. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucked.”
“That looked expensive.” Guilt gnaws at my stomach, an unwelcome sensation that makes me fidget. “I’m sorry. If she was aiming for me, then—”
“Don’t.” He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t feel bad about it.” Relief floods through me for exactly two seconds before he continues. “Because you’re going to pay for the dry cleaning.”
My mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” That insufferable smirk is back, the one that makes my fingers itch to slap it off his face. “Eight hundred dollars for specialty cleaning, assuming they can even save it.”
“Eight hundred—Are you insane? I didn’t throw that bottle!”
“No, but your little boyfriend drama brought this mess to my doorstep.” He steps closer, and I catch that hint of expensive cologne again. “Actions have consequences, Princess.”
“Joshua is not my boyfriend!”
“Tell that to the woman who just tried to turn you into abstract art.”
“You’re unbelievable.” I scowl at him, immediately regretting it when the movement pulls at my cuts. “Fine. I’ll pay for your precious coat.”
“Good.” His finger grazes my bandaged cheek with surprising gentleness, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch. “But that’s not all you’re going to pay for.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“My hot chocolate.” His voice drops lower, and suddenly the kitchenette feels impossibly small. “It’s going to take at least a month to get another shipment of that particular blend. Swiss customs, special import permits, the whole nine yards.”
“It was just chocolate powder—”
“Sixty-dollar chocolate powder that you destroyed out of petty revenge.” His thumb brushes over the edge of my bandage, and I hate how my skin tingles under his touch. “Until my replacement arrives, you’re going to regret ruining my last batch.”
I tilt my chin up defiantly, even though my heart is racing. “I’m not scared of you, Wilder—”
“Reynolds,” he corrects automatically, but his eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.
“Whatever your name is, the answer’s the same. You don’t scare me.”
His finger trails down from my cheek, following the line of my jaw to my throat. I should step back. I should slap his hand away. Instead, I stand frozen as his touch skims along the hollow of my collarbone where my shirt has come undone, exposing more skin than I intended.
“You should be very scared,” he murmurs, his voice rough with something that makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Bite me,” I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.
His eyes darken, and suddenly he’s even closer, close enough I can feel his breath against my ear.
“Careful what you wish for, Princess.” Before I can process what he means, his teeth graze my earlobe, a gentle bite that sends electricity shooting straight through me.
The sensation is so unexpected, so intimate, that I gasp.
My hand flies up to push him away—or maybe pull him closer; I’m not sure which—when Flora’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
“Oh my goodness! Eve, what happened to your face?”
Caleb steps back so smoothly you’d think he’d never been close enough to bite me at all. Instead, he takes off his jacket, studying the damage from the paint as if he’s just realized it was there.
“Ladies,” he says with mock politeness. “I’ll leave you to your girl-talk.”
“Caleb—” I start, but he’s already brushing past me and toward the door.
“Don’t forget about that dry cleaning bill,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll send you the receipt.”
The door swings shut behind him, leaving me alone with Flora and a pulse that’s racing for all the wrong reasons.
Jerk.
“Eve, honey, you’re bleeding!” Flora rushes toward me, her giraffe-print caftan billowing around her like a concerned grandmother tornado. “What on earth happened? Was there an accident? Should I call an ambulance?”