The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

one on the small of her back. "We're going to my place and taking care of this. Come on, this way. Don't look at it. I mean it, looking at it won't help."

"You're asking me to ignore the blood gushing out of my hand. That seems like a poorly formed choice."

"I saw the way your eyes crossed back there. Maybe you can hang with bats but something tells me blood is off-limits."

"I'm not comfortable with you being right," she replied. "It's like writing with the wrong hand."

"Sure it is, sweetheart." I led her into my house through the deck, not stopping to switch on the living room lights as we made our way into the kitchen. "Here we are."

Holding her by the waist, I lifted her to sit on the countertop. I held her injured hand over the sink and flipped on the tap, passing my fingers under the stream to test the temperature.

"What gives you the impression I want to be manhandled?"

I couldn't stop the laugh rumbling up from my chest. "Oh, there's a few things." I brought her hand to the water. "Hold still. Let me wash this out."

She obeyed this request but couldn't find it in her to stop arguing while I used both of my hands to gently lather the soap. "We've had a number of conversations where I've made it clear I am not a fan of your hard-headed"—I laughed again because fuck, she did not know the hard half of it—"meddlesome, antiquated attitude."

"I'm gonna stop you right there. Not because I see it differently, not because I've had legitimate reasons for everything I've done, and not because it's possible you're wrong about me."

She peered at me, a cute little crease forming between her brows. "Then why?"

"Because I've cleaned your cuts and they're mostly minor but the first aid kit is in my bathroom. I need you to tell me whether I can leave you here for a minute. I don't want you passing out in my kitchen. That would be worse than another one of your banana breads, and for both of us. The floor is hard. It will hurt. I'll have to pick you up and I'll probably have to drag your ass to a clinic."

"Is being an asshole part of the treatment?"

"Nah, that comes free for you." I wrapped a paper towel around her hand and elevated her forearm above her head. It was more about keeping the blood out of sight than any crazy amount of bleeding. "Stay just like that. Don't move. Not even to yell at me."

The bathroom was only a few steps away and it didn't take more than a minute for me to grab the kit and return to Jasper but it was long enough for me to remember how all this started. I went to her because I'd been out of line earlier. Even if it bothered the hell out of me that she had to do all this work alone. Even if there was clearly much more to her situation than she was sharing. Even if sparring with her filled me with perverted joy.

Fuck. Especially then.

It wasn't my business to call her out. I didn't have the right to criticize her as I had.

This, plus the fact nothing good would come from pursuing my neighbor, shifted my thinking enough to stuff away any notions of keeping our flirty, fiery banter going tonight.

Until I caught sight of Jasper bathed in the warm glow of the kitchen light, her hair tucked back behind her ears, and the skirt of her dress hiked barely above her slightly spread knees.

There was nothing specifically amazing about it but maybe that was what made it amazing. She was gorgeous and freaked out by blood and maybe a little drunk too. And she was in my kitchen, waiting for me to help her.

There was nothing else in the universe I wanted right now. Not a single thing.

"I'm impressed," I said, stalking toward her while a hot tingle spiraled through my muscles. "You followed directions. Is that a first?"

Her face brightened in a rueful smile. "It might very well be. I'm not one for coloring inside the lines."

I wrapped my fingers around her elbow and took my time skimming them up to her wrist. Her skin was unreal. So soft, so smooth. I could lose a day to the creamy expanse of her forearm.

"Stopped bleeding," I said as I peeled back the paper towel. "Some antiseptic, a couple of Band-Aids, and you'll be hammering away in no time." I blotted the cuts on her palm once more. "Maybe not first thing tomorrow morning though."

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on mine. "Not tomorrow morning."

I couldn't look away. Couldn't even breathe.

"Do you want me to do it?" Her eyes widened at my question. "The antiseptic. And the bandages. Do you want me to do this for you? So you don't have to look?"

Her lips parted on a fast breath. She nodded but then stopped herself, saying, "It's okay. I can do it."

"I know you can." I gave her wrist a squeeze that fell somewhere between comfort and restraint. I didn't know what I wanted to give her more. "There's nothing you can't do, Jas, but there's nothing wrong with letting someone else deal with the problems for a minute. Especially the gory ones."

"That sounds all well and good but it's never that easy. Never."

She ducked her head down, out of the overhead light's glow, as her eyes grew shiny. Whether it was alcohol or emotion, she didn't want me to see.

I thumbed open the antiseptic cream. "I'm not gonna prove you wrong."

"Because it's the truth," she muttered, her gaze still averted as I dabbed the cream on her palm. "People don't usually do it right. When they deal with the problems, I mean."

"I'm actually going to agree with you on this one."

She jerked her head up. "I'm not sure how to respond to that. What do we do now? We can't just…agree."

I swept