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“Okay, well…I’ll start cutting these fake pumpkins if there’s nothing I can do for you.” She stood from her crouched position. No sense in both of them cramping up tonight.
“Yeah. I’ll help. Just give me a minute or two.”
“Sure thing,” she responded as she lined up the pumpkins on the receptionist's desk and pulled the carving tools from her bag. She popped the two jagged knives out of the packaging that boasted the sloganperfect for pumpkinsacross the top. “Do you think these will be okay to use, even though they’re for real pumpkins?”
“I assume so. Just be careful because they look really sharp.”
They actually looked like tiny hacksaws. And even with Eric’s warning, she was not at all prepared for how effortlessly they cut through the faux pumpkin.
Or her finger.
Before he knew it, Lucy was red.
Not like the Taylor Swift song he couldn’t get out of his head. Stella played enough TS at the salon that Eric could sing nearly every song by heart. Did this make him a Swiftie? He did feel like he was in hisFolkloreera.
But no…Lucy’s hand was red—dripping red—a direct contrast to the white of her face.
“Son of a—” She pinched her eyes closed as another drop of blood hit the floor. Eric sprang to her side, wrapping her finger in the flannel shirt he’d peeled off on his way over. He warmed when her unfocused eyes scanned the skin not covered by his white tank top. If he didn’t have a medical emergency to tend to, he would have…
No, there wasn’t time for this.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, rubbing his hand up and down her back. Her body trembled slightly beneath his palm, and that was the only sign he needed to wrap her in his arms.
“I just… I can’t take the sight of my blood.” Her voice shook as much as her body. “If I see too much, I’ll…I’ll pass…”
Her body went limp in his arms, and he blurted a slew of curses that would have made a sailor blush. He should have acted faster, for crying out loud. Jeez, how much blood had she lost?
With the sweep of his hand, he shoved away the supplies from the long table and gently laid her on it. He brought his hand to the soft skin beneath her jaw, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt her steady pulse beneath his fingertips. It wasa stark contrast to the way his pounded in his chest, a cocktail of anger and worry swirling like a storm inside him. And if he didn’t get control, he was going to shift right here in the salon, which was not what he needed. Neither did Lucy.
Peeling back the flannel fabric, the tension that had tied his stomach into no less than a dozen knots melted away like an early spring snow.
“Thank goodness,” he whispered when he saw how little blood was on his shirt. Clearly, she’d passed out from the sight of blood, not from the amount lost. That, he could fix.
But not with his vision compromised like this.
“What the…” He dabbed his eyes with his fingers, doing a double-take at the moisture coating the tips. He bit his lip when he felt the tickle of what he assumed were tears trickling down his face. What was happening here? Ever the epitome of poise in the face of danger, he’d only ever lost control over his emotions when he was angry. But this…this wasn’t anger pulsing through his veins. This was the exact opposite.
He didn’t have time to psychoanalyze why he’d been reduced to a sniffling mess of a man. Not when he needed to fix Lucy’s wound as quickly as possible.
Placing both of his hands around hers, he took a deep breath to steady the jitters springing to life inside him. He didn’t know what to do about whatever was swirling around in his stomach or making his knees wobble as he looked at her. He needed to focus so he could take away her pain.
So why did he feel like he was the one who would ultimately get hurt in this situation?
ChapterNine
Lucy was dead.
That was the only explanation. Because why else was she opening her eyes as an actual angel peered down at her? And she just knew there would be pumpkin roll waiting for her in heaven, which was probably why she smelled it now.
Though, she’d always imagined angels as little cherubic people in robe-like garb—not muscled men in skintight undershirts.
“Eric,” she called, shaking her head at the voice that escaped her lips. It ground out like she’d swallowed a handful of gravel. She’d passed out enough times to know that was not what she usually sounded like when she came to. So, had something more happened?
She’d only remembered slicing her finger. Not that she got a good look at it. She would have passed out right that second if she’d seen that. Especially when all itreallytook was seeing a drop of blood hit the floor. But from the way Eric’s hair stuck out every which way and the pained, watery gaze he gave, maybe something much worse had happened to her. He hadn’t even blinked since she’d opened her eyes.
“Am I okay?” She raised her hand into view, breathing a sigh when she saw her finger was still attached. The only evidence of anything happening was a tiny red line crossing the tip. Guess she hadn’t cut herself as badly as she’d thought.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re fine.” He turned and walked to the window, ruffling his hair with more force than necessary. Working in the hair industry, he had to know that much jostling wasn’t good for the scalp.
