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No matter what she felt, he was off-limits. Yes, technically his father’s estate was her client, not him. But Griffith was involved. Sleeping with him could derail the career she’d worked so hard for.
Satisfying a simple burst of hormones was not worth that risk. It couldn’t be, could it?
The rest of the trip back to the house was made in silence. Once inside, he took her into the kitchen and sat her down on one of the chairs. She watched as he moved about from the state-of-the-art refrigerator and freezer hidden behind wood paneling to a cupboard that contained stacks of neatly folded cloth.
“How does it feel?”
“Painful,” she ground out through gritted teeth.
He sat in the chair across from her and made a motion with his hands for her to bring up her leg and rest it on his knee. She did so, even though it stung her pride.
“Hold still.”
“I’ll try.”
“If you yank back, I may not be able to keep a hold on it and it could break off in your foot. It could cause an infection.”
“I have three brothers. I helped my mom patch them up enough times to know about pulling out things. Thorns, glass, porcupine quills.”
His lips lifted a fraction. Not much, but just enough to count as an almost smile.
“Porcupine quills?”
“It always amazed me,” she forced out as pain pulsed in the bottom of her foot, “how something with such a cute face could be so menacing.”
“I’ve wondered the same thing.”
Her eyes came up to meet his and she realized with a jolt of surprise that he was teasing her.
“You’re saying I’m cute?”
“Perhaps.”
Shock rendered her speechless. He thought she was cute? She would have preferred beautiful or sexy. But she could make do with cute, too, especially from a man like him who maybe offered a compliment once or twice a year.
“I think the last time I was called cute,” she finally managed to say, “was in middle school by Henry Dorsey.”
“And you and he didn’t live happily ever after?”
“My brothers scared him off. As they—”
With a sudden yank, he pulled the thorn out of her foot.
“Ouch! You could have warned me.”
“Which would have made you tense up and made it all the more likely that the thorn would have broken off in your foot.”
She managed to keep her lips pressed together as he cleansed the wound and wrapped her foot.
“Thank you.”
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Thank you,” she repeated. “For taking care of me.”
He blinked, as if he didn’t know what to make of her gratitude. His lips parted, then came back together before he finally managed to say, “You’re welcome.”
Tension still lingered between them, but her accidental sojourn into the wild rose bushes had created a temporary truce between them.
