“Hmmm, you’re pale. Talk to me, it will help.” He blows on my skin, soothing the burn.
I suck in a breath. “Well, back to nemeses, there’s my favorite, Harry Potter and Voldemort—” I pause, my heart skipping as another bead of blood trickles down my foot. “Oh, no…” I sway on the table, my throat moving convulsively.
He looks up at me, searching my face. “Just breathe. Big inhale, long exhale.”
The room spins, and I lean forward, resting my forehead on his chest.
He pulls my face up. “Serena? Hey, baby, focus on me.”
“Don’t call me baby,” I whisper. That was Vane’s nickname for me.
I stare into his ocean gaze, trying to focus, but the sting isn’t going away, and the crimson color that’s dripping down my foot… “This is incredibly embarrassing, because I’d like to believe I’m tough, and I apologize in advance, but I think I might…” The room darkens, dots flashing in my field of vision. “Pass out.”
He presses my face down between my legs, maneuvering me until my back is bent. “That’s it, breathe for me.”
I suck in air and blow it out, trying to ignore his hands in my hair, the way his fingers knead my nape. It’s not a sexual touch, but careful and deep. My muscles unlock as I let out a long breath.
“I like your dandelion tattoo,” he says quietly. “What does it mean?”
The image on my nape is about four inches long, a blue dandelion with the seeds flying away on one side. “Thanks,” I say, my head still bent. “Second chances. It’s a weed, but has deep roots, like a close family, and comes back again and again. Got it when I was seventeen with a fake ID. There might have been vodka involved. My parents grounded me for a month.” I pause, feeling better already. Talking does help. “These days, it symbolizes hope for happiness and love. I’m a bit of a dreamer, I guess.”
A gruff laugh comes from him. “Seventeen? You’re a rebel.”
“Not so much lately.”
He pauses, as his fingers drift over my tattoo. “To me, a dandelion means wishing for something. I happen to know a lot about that.”
“Oh. What do you wish for?”
There’s a silence, then, “Besides being a good quarterback, I wish I could go back in time, knowing what I know now, so I don’t screw it up. Do you have any more tattoos?”
“No. I was a little wild when I got it, I guess, but in my defense, my dad was covered in tattoos. He was upset about the drinking. He was a cop. He is—was—the best man I ever met. Yours are nice. I like the roses.”
“You noticed them,” he purrs.
I rise up and look at him. I imagine my face is flushed from being bent, and I can feel the color deepening.
“I saw your”—magnificent chest—“tattoos at the Pig.”
“You might feel better if you let this down.” He pulls my hair out of the messy bun and spreads it out with his hands.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.” My eyes land on his lips then dart away. Oh, man. Is he flirting?
That question is answered when his hands fall away from me as he gets back to work, kneeling down and inspecting my ankles. He wipes the rest of the blood away with another alcohol pad. “What about Seinfeld and Newman?”
What? Oh…
“Oldie but a goodie.”
“Ever watch Alien? Ripley and the alien were archenemies.”
“Kept my eyes closed through most of it, especially the nightmare scene where she delivers a baby alien…” I wince. “Let’s talk about something else. That movie isn’t helping.”
“You know… One could say I have the upper hand with you right now.”
“You’re the one on your knees.”
“Ah, there you are, ornery as usual. I best get used to being on my knees around you.”
I start. “Why?”
“No reason.” He dips his face so I can’t read him as he pulls out a square bandage from the kit, rips the package with his teeth, and removes the backing. Carefully, he holds my foot and applies the beige bandage, his fingers dancing over my foot. Goosebumps rise on my body and I glare at them. Dear Body, ignore the fine example of male hotness in front of you. He is a womanizer as was evidenced in the Pig! Yes, he speaks French, the language of love, but you must ignore it!
Moments of silence pass as he takes my other ankle and performs his ministrations.
I clear my throat. “Are you what everyone thinks? Party boy who’s just passing time before he goes to the NFL?” I recall the countless girls on his social media, hugging him, kissing his cheek, smiling up at him…
“People see what they want to. What do you think?”
I think he’s got layers underneath that carefree demeanor. Or, at least, I hope he does.
He looks up, and I realize I haven’t answered his question. Instead, something weird comes out of my mouth. “When I look at you, I see storms in your eyes.” Maybe a glimmer of sadness. “It makes me wonder who you really are.”
He gives me a searching look then drops his gaze. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
There are ten beats of silence. I know because I count them.
“I figured a girl like you, you’d be hard to hold onto.” His eyes hold mine, intensely, as if willing me to understand the meaning of his words. When I don’t take the bait, he exhales, a frustrated look on his face. “Anyway. Back to your earlier question. Most think I have everything, but no one ever does. I lost my brother.”
I hear the hint of barely suppressed grief in his voice.
He stands, too close for comfort yet not touching me. I have to hold myself back from leaning in and inhaling him. The air between us crackles, and part of me—the insane crazy girl part—wants him to kiss me.
