Page 42 of Yours Truly, Fall

“Yeah.” He lifts his good arm and shows me the skin that’s been ripped. “A broken branch got me.”

“Got you is an understatement.” Taking his hand, I start to tug him back to the steps. “We need to get you cleaned up to see if you’ll need stitches.”

He doesn’t put up a fight, and by the third step, his grip tightens around my hand like it’s his to hold. I shouldn't love the way I feel safer with his hand wrapped around mine or the way he causes my heart to beat faster. But I do. I really do.

I slept better sharing the same bed with him than I do at home. And we didn’t even do anything other than hold each other or lie next to each other. How do feelings pop up out of nowhere like that? I’m making my way and minding my own business, dreaming of having a little place to call my own and a job where I get to spend more time helping people than I do desk work.

Only a few days into this reunion we’re having, and boom, I feel like he cares about me like I do him. It doesn’t hurt that he doesn’t remember what happened between us.

When we walk inside, I pull him toward the peninsula. “I didn’t bring a full kit, but I have some wipes and bandages, which will work for this new wound. Come sit.” He sits on the barstool and raises his arm for me. I clean the area and take another look. “It looked worse than it is. You won’t need stitches, but there is some bruising on your ribs.” I stand, looking at him. His lopsided grin tells me he’s absolutely eating this up, and those eyes that hold a million mischievous ideas inside are telling me he’s already plotting another way to get me to stay, since this scratch, even though it’s not pretty, won’t justify the change in plans. “Is that from today?”

“Probably. I don’t know. Would I even notice anymore?” he says, his tone matching his sourpuss expression.

I smooth a clean bandage over the wound, and eye him suspiciously. His pout is ridiculous, but I can’t help myself. “Do you want me to kiss it and make it all better?”

His eyes light up. I roll my eyes, kissing the tips of my fingers before pressing them to the bandaged wound. “You’re all good again.”

He reaches up, a subtle flinch from his shoulder to his eye, when the arm that is his saving grace and still fully works is lifted to touch his lips. “What about here?”

I really hate how handsome this man is. So distracting. He really makes it hard to look away. “You got that charm of yours working overtime.” If he keeps this up, he’s going to get more than he bargained for when I kiss him smack on the lips, just to determine whether it’s as good as I always imagined.

Not that I ever imagined kissing Brandon Culver. Why would I want to kiss someone who once pressed his lips to mine and then was seen later that night with Chantilly Flic—Don’t wind yourself up over stuff that no longer matters, Autumn.

“Believe it or not, it comes natural.”

“I believe it alright. Dolly used to warn us girls about guys like you.”

His grin grows into a full-tilt smirk. “Yeah? What was that warning?”

“Don’t let them go.” I laugh under my breath. “She’s not the best for advice when it comes to men.”

Chuckling, he says, “I always heard she was a flirt.”

“Her reputation precedes her.” I anchor a hand around the side of my waist, and ask, “Now back to your lips? What’s going on?” Other than me being drawn to the fullness of them.

“I think I have a boo-boo that needs kissing, too.”

With his hair hanging over his forehead and some blood dried on his chest, he couldn’t look more rugged and masculine. I’ve waged this war before. Last night, I wanted to kiss him so badly that I had to leave the room altogether to get myself under control. “I can do you one better.”

“Oh yeah?”

Tapping his nose, I say, “I can call your mom to do it.” I toss the wipes and trash in the kitchen.

He stands with his shoulders dragging as much as his head. “I’m good.”

“Are you? You don’t seem good.” Why is beating him at his own game so entertaining? I’m not usually one for the antics, but it’s kind of fun since no one is getting hurt.

“I’ll live. I’m going to shower.” Leaning against the corner that leads to the hall, he stops. When our eyes connect, he asks, “Want to join me?”

The answer is no, but for some reason, I can’t get myself to say it. “Can I ask you something first?”

“Anything.”

I come around the peninsula and walk toward him, not wanting to shout across the room. But even more, I want to see the truth in his eyes, because that will determine how everything goes from here. Stopping just two feet in front of him, I ask, “Earlier, when you asked me to stay, were you talking medical fraud, or do you really need me to stay for personal reasons?”

“What answer would get me the response I want?”

“The truth.”