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Great.
“Where are you going?” The barked question has my head flying up, and I find Roman glaring at my bags before he transfers that glare to me.
“I was going to start packing up my car,” I snap because my toe hurts, and I’m still annoyed with him for earlier. Limping, I turn back into my room, leaving him and my bags where they are.
“What happened?” I hear him behind me as I hobble toward the bathroom, trying not to get any blood on the carpet.
“Nothing.” I grab a piece of toilet paper and lift my foot to the side of the tub to dab at the blood. The cut is not very deep, but it’s long, jagged, and bleeding a lot.
“Shit, do you have a first-aid kit?”
“Yeah, it’s with my fine china and crystal wine glasses.” I roll my eyes, then let out a yelp when I’m spun around and lifted off my feet. My ass comes down hard on the bathroom counter, and my breath catches in the back of my throat when he grabs my ankle, lifts my foot to the edge of the sink, and then turns on the water.
Running his fingers under the tap, he adjusts it while I try to come up with something to say because all my words are a jumbled-up mess in my head right now. I can’t believe he picked me up and put me where he wanted me once again. When he takes my foot and puts it under the running water, I bite my bottom lip and squeeze my eyes closed.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, shutting off the water, and I open my eyes as he grabs a hand towel and gently wraps it around my foot. “Stay here. I’m going to run to the office and see if they have a first aid kit.”
“I’m fine.”
His eyes meet mine, and the look he gives me makes me gulp. “Stay here.”
“Okay,” I agree on a whisper then watch him leave.
I feel like an idiot, sitting on the counter and waiting for him to come back, but I don’t move from the spot while he’s gone. So I’m still right where he left me when he returns so quickly I wonder if he ran the whole way.
Dumping a few bandages and alcohol wipes on the counter, he slowly unwraps my foot, the scrape still bleeding as he inspects it.
“It’s not too bad.” He rips open one of the alcohol wipes, then lifts my leg and foot up. “Ready?” I nod, then grit my teeth as he softly dabs the wound that burns and stings from the contact of the pad. “You, okay?” His eyes lock on mine as he blows on the cut, alleviating the sting.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” I whisper because I can’t speak any louder, not with my insides twisted up in a knot so tight I’m not sure I’ll ever get them untangled. I had no idea the top of my foot was connected to other, more intimate parts of my body, but I now know that to be true.
He doesn’t acknowledge my statement. Instead, he rests the ball of my foot against his rock hard abs and reaches for a Band-Aid. I watch as he opens it, then carefully places it over the wound, his hands covered with harsh ink so gentle the contradiction is not lost on me.
When he's done, his thumb smooths up the arch of my foot, digging in, causing my lips to part as a soft whimper crawls up the back of my throat. I should not be getting turned on, but I am, and when his gaze meets mine, I swear his eyes seem darker and wilder than they’ve ever been when he’s looked at me.
When I lick over my bottom lip, his eyes drop to my mouth, and he starts to lean toward me. My pulse skyrockets and my fingers grip the counter’s edge so tight they start to tingle. He’s so close that I can see his inner iris is a seafoam green and crystal blue mixture. So close, I swear I can taste the mint on his breath. So close, the subtle scent of his cologne that smells crisp and masculine, has wrapped around my senses, making me lightheaded.
He’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him. The realization takes over all my rational thoughts as my eyes slide shut.
The ringing of my cell phone from the back pocket of my shorts has the same effect as a bucket of cold water being tossed over me. My eyes spring open, and without thinking, I shove him back with my foot still resting against his stomach. Caught off guard, he stumbles back a step and hits the open door, causing it to bang into the wall while he lets out a grunt of pain.
“Oh my God.” I hop down from the counter. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to do that. I just?—”
“It’s fine.” He rubs his lower hip where the doorknob likely hit him, making me cringe.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His eyes drop to my mouth before moving back up to mine. That’s when I realize my body is pressed against his in the small space between the counter and the wall, and with his height and size, there isn’t an inch between us. “You wanna get that?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat, backing away from him and out of the bathroom, while I take my phone out of my back pocket.
Seeing the caller is my real estate agent—or I guess, my ex-real estate agent now, and my ex-fiancé’s uncle—small-town problems. I hesitate.
Before I started packing, and after I spoke to a woman named Kandi—a real estate agent in Cheyenne, a city about two hours from where I grew up, I sent him an email, letting him know I would no longer be using his services. There was a little nugget of guilt when I sent that email, but after speaking to Kandi, I felt more sure than ever that changing real estate agents would be the right decision.
She let me know that normally she didn’t take on properties so far from where she’s located, but she was making an exception after talking to Roman and doing some research of her own. She told me in not so many words that it seemed shady that I hadn’t received even a single offer, especially after I did a drastic price reduction a couple of months ago. And while my property sat on the market, other properties in the area with less land and higher price points sold within months. She also told me that she didn’t believe she’d have an issue selling it, even if I raised the price back to where it was.
My phone rings again, dragging me from my thoughts, and I slide my finger across the screen, putting it to my ear. “Hey, Tom.”
