“The boxers, T-shirt, and socks are on the bed.” She opened the Epsom salt box, poured a goodly amount into the water, bent over again to slosh it around—to his delight—then turned the water off and straightened.
“Stay in as long as you can,” she said, all business and nursely concern. “After you’re finished, dry off real well, then dab on the ammonia or alcohol. While that’s drying, make a paste with water and baking soda. Dab that on, let it dry, then rinse it off, and dab on the ammonia again. Just before you go to bed, take two ibuprofen and another Benadryl. If you have any trouble breathing or swallowing, or if your throat feels thick, come get me. Good night.”
“Could you repeat that?”
“No.” She left, closing the door behind her. Both doors.
Dalton sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. He felt like hammered shit. Yet knowing Raney was nearby helped. They’d been together in the car for six straight hours and it felt odd to be apart. Which was odd in itself.
After his soak, he stood at the sink and dabbed every red place he could see. It stung, but not too bad. He only found eight spots, which meant there were several he couldn’t see. He debated bothering Raney about it, then heard noises on the other side of the wall and figured she wasn’t asleep yet. Either that, or she was moving furniture against the adjoining door.
He pulled on his new boxers—UT Longhorns—really?—then his jeans, left the robe, and padded barefoot out of the bathroom, ammonia and cotton ball in hand. After opening the first adjoining door, he listened at the one into their room, heard them talking, and knocked with his elbow.
Joss opened the door. Behind her, Raney disappeared into the bathroom. Both wore T-shirts and flannel shorts under robes like his. Raney’s legs were amazing.
Joss stared at his chest, then her gaze did a quick drop to where his buckle would be if he’d had on a belt, then across his shoulders, and finally up to his face. It happened so fast he didn’t have time to flex.
Then he saw Raney coming out of the bathroom, and all thoughts of trying to impress her sister fled. She looked exhausted. Drained. Like maybe she had been crying again. That concerned him, but he knew better than to comment on it.
He held up the ammonia bottle. “I only found eight.” Then before her sister could offer to help, he turned and walked back into his bathroom.
“I can’t reach the ones on my shoulders in back,” he said to the mirror when Raney walked in behind him, closing the door so they could move around in the small space.
“Turn around so I can check the others.”
He faced her. She was so close he could smell the shampoo in her damp hair and the same soap he’d used in his bath. He watched her face as she gently brushed her palm over the bumps on his chest, then up to those on his neck and shoulder, and down to others on his right arm.
It was torture. Especially the way her eyes followed the sweep of her fingers over his skin. He understood now why dogs craved the stroke of the human hand. Although not in the way he was craving this.
“The bath seems to have helped,” she said in an odd voice as she took her hand away. “Did you try the baking soda paste?”
He cleared his throat. “On those I could reach.”
Her gaze flew up to his. Blue as a mountain lake. Or a hot summer sky. He watched a furrow build between those remarkable eyes and wanted to rub his thumb over it to make it go away.
“You sound hoarse,” she said. “Is your throat okay? Are you breathing okay?”
Not now. “I’m fine.” He thrust the bottle and cotton ball toward her.
“Did you get the back of your arms?” she asked.
“Those I found.”
“Turn around.”
He faced the mirror again. Not as much fun. He could barely see the top of her head above his shoulder. Her hair was lighter when it was dry, almost the color of light amber ale but with blond streaks where the sun bleached it. He doubted the color came from a bottle.
She dampened the cotton ball with ammonia and started dabbing. “They look a lot better than they did. Does it sting?”
He shrugged and tried to focus on the molding above the mirror, rather than the warm whisper of her breath against his back.
“Mama would put ammonia on any kind of bite. Especially itchy mosquito bites. It helped.” She ran her left hand up the back of his neck to push hair out of her way and dabbed at his hairline.
It was just a hand. Barbers had touched his neck plenty of times. But none had ever made him feel like this.
She moved to the back of his other arm. He shifted so he could see her face in the mirror. The furrow on her brow was deeper and her lips were pursed in concentration as she dabbed away. Her eyes seemed slightly swollen and he thought again that she might have been crying. Over him?
The thought spread through him in a warm rush.
“I’m sorry I overreacted,” she said. “The EMTs probably thought I was crazy.”
“I doubt it.” They were probably as hot for her as he was. “They said if you hadn’t given me the antihistamine, it could have been a lot worse.”
She shot him a glance. “You heard that? I thought you were asleep.”
“I was resting up. In case I had to fight them off.”
She made that snort again and resumed dabbing. “I doubt you were in any danger.”
“I meant fight them off of you.”
She didn’t say anything, but he was rewarded with a slow flush of color across her cheeks. “Why were you so worried?” he asked on impulse. “You don’t seem the type to overreact.”
“I usually don’t. Joss and
