Chapter 22
How is this happening again? I think to myself, as I allow Mira’s tongue to slip into my mouth. Her lips are salt, and fire, and sweetness all wrapped in one as I thread my hand through her hair and pull her closer to me.
“Wait,” I say, resting my forehead against hers, trying to catch my breath.
“What?” Mira asks as her hand rests against my chest, my heart pounding underneath her fingers, mine atop hers.
“I think I just need a minute to process,” I say, taking her in. The usual heavy makeup she wears is gone, showcasing a dizzying array of freckles that dance along her nose and cheeks. I thought she was beautiful before, but seeing her like this—unfiltered and bare-faced—takes my breath away.
“I’m the one who just got info-dumped,” she replies, a smirk growing across her lips.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just can’t believe this.”
“That I forgave you or that we’re kissing?”
“Both,” I chuckle, insecurity washing over me. “I guess there was a part of me that worried when you snuck out of my apartment that you regretted coming home with me, or had a bad time, or weren’t that into me.”
“Hudson,” Mira says, tilting her chin so her lips are a whisper away from mine, “I’ve been into you since the first time we met.”
“I’m pretty sure I spilled Pbr on you that night.”
“It was endearing,” she replies as she lingers in my arms, her hazel eyes staring at me with the same warmth and trust she had for me at Finn’s.
Now that there are no more secrets between us, I’m ready to give her all of me. But before I can, I glance down and catch the sight of the blood caked on the side of her leg.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “We need to get you bandaged.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” she laughs. And even though I find her quoting Monty Python to me utterly endearing, I find it impossible to find humor in her being in pain.
“Come on, I have a first-aid kit in the Jeep.” Reaching for her hand, I’m overcome by the sensation of her fingers slipping into my hand as we walk across the parking lot together.
“I’ve hurt myself on the job a lot worse than this,” she assures me, as I help her into the front seat.
“Are weddings that dangerous?”
“You have no idea,” she says, pointing towards a long thin line down her shin.
“See this scar? The maid of honor pushed me into a door because she wanted to be the one to hold the bride’s train even though I assured her I got it.
Had to have six stitches. But I didn’t get a drop of blood on the wedding dress. ”
“Jesus,” I say, popping open the top of the first-aid kit and extracting the necessary items.
“That’s not even the worst one.” She tosses her hair to the side, exposing a slew of discolored marks along the side of her neck.
“Burn marks, from a Fourth of July wedding, where the groomsmen bought bottle rockets instead of sparklers. Luckily the groom was in the Army, so he jumped on top of the bride before she could get hurt. I wasn’t as lucky.”
“I’d hate to be your insurance provider,” I jest.
“My premiums are pretty high.”
Delicately, I wipe away as much of the blood on her knee as I can before ripping open an alcohol wipe.
“This might sting,” I warn.
“I can handle it,” she says, wincing.
My hands work slowly, relishing the feeling of her skin against mine as I make sure there aren’t any deeper lacerations hiding underneath the blood. But when all I see are surface scratches, I slather on disinfecting ointment and wrap it in gauze.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, securing my work with a piece of surgical tape.
“I’m just thinking about how you’re so good at so many things, but you can’t make a whiskey sour to save your life.”
“You really don’t like my drinks?” I’d thought her earlier comments were a dig to cut me down. But they couldn’t be that bad, could they?
Mira bites at her lip, holding back a smile as she tries to gently let me down. “No one wants to tell the sweet, attractive bartender that they wasted twelve dollars. But, Hudson, your drinks suck.”
I mockingly place a hand over my chest. “Damn. Even hearing you say I’m attractive doesn’t ease the hurt.”
“Oh my God. Shut up.” She blushes bashfully, and I have to admit every time it happens it’s like I’ve completed a quest.
“How about I make it up to you by taking you out for a real cocktail when we get home. At one of those fancy bars where they have the mood lighting and overpriced olive bowls,” I offer, ready to put a real date in the calendar.
“Or you could buy me one now?”