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She closed her eyes. Why couldn’t she resist him when he spoke to her like that?
“Tell me what happened,” he demanded.
“I slept in,” she blurted out. “Fudge. Why did I tell you that?”
“You should always tell me the truth,” he told her. “Then what happened?”
“I was rushing here and I tripped.”
Sniffle.
“You tripped?”
“Yes.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
A hand grasped one of hers, turning it over and she couldn’t help but look down.
Fudge.
She’d managed to scrape her palm. As soon as she saw the wound, her hand began to sting. He grabbed her other hand, again holding her so gently and turned it.
“Ouchie.”
“Little Blossom, you are not fine.”
“I, um . . . they didn’t start to hurt until I saw them.”
He simply hummed as he took hold of her wrist and led her out of the room, then down to the kitchen.
Faith knew she should get herself together. Insist that she could take care of herself.
But it felt so nice to have someone else take charge. To look after her. Suddenly, he lifted her up onto the counter.
“Um,” she said hesitantly.
Then he grasped the bottom of her skirt, lifting it up over her knees.
She gasped.
“Easy, Ms. Blossom. I just want to check your knees. Which are as scraped up as your palms.”
His voice was scolding and it made her squirm. She didn’t like disappointing him. She hated disappointing anyone.
But, for some reason, she especially hated disappointing him.
“I’m really sorry. I’ll stay late to make up for missed time.”
“That’s not what I’m upset about,” he told her as he reached under the sink for a first aid kit.
“You’re upset because you’re having to take time out of your busy day to clean me up?” she asked as he cleaned her scrapes.
“No. Try again.” He used antiseptic, blowing on the wounds as she hissed.
“Um. Is it that I hurt myself?”
