With the efficiency of an army nurse, she herded Mitch onto an examining table and peeled away the bloody towel to expose a four-inch gash along his forearm.
Jaye pressed her hand over her mouth to silence a frightened gasp. Wavering darkness fogged the edges of her vision, but she took a strengthening gulp of air so she wouldn’t faint.
A doctor wearing a white lab coat walked in and gave Mitch a broad smile. “Thought I’d never see you waiting for stitches.”
“Don’t gloat, Tom.” Mitch grumbled, allowing the nurse to push him into a semi-reclining position on the adjustable table.
The doctor took a look at the laceration and let out a low whistle. “That’s quite a cut. What happened?”
“I dropped a piece of glass. One of the shards got me.”
“Ah. The mighty Mitchell Blake is human, after all.” The doctor washed his hands and glanced at Jaye. “Did you bring him in?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Tom Spencer. Mitch and I played football together in high school. I can’t tell you how many times he saved my butt on the field.” He gave Mitch a lopsided smile. “Now I get the chance to return the favor.”
Mitch gave a terse nod and stared up at the ceiling.
The nurse none-too-gently propped his injured limb on a padded arm of the examining table.
Jaye stood near the chair placed in the corner of the room, studying the rigid tension bunched across Mitch’s brow. The pucker along his forehead was so tight, his skin turned a pale white along the crease.
Tom donned latex gloves and picked up a syringe. “You’ve seen me do this on your glassblowers, Mitch, so you know the drill. I’ll inject some anesthetic into the wound, give you a few moments to get numb, and then I’ll clean out the wound before I sew you up.” He placed his hand on Mitch’s wounded forearm. “Sorry about this, but I’ve got to hold you down. Try to relax. I won’t insult your intelligence by saying this won’t hurt, but it’s got to be done.”
Mitch’s fingers curled into his palms.
Jaye shoved his coat into the chair and jammed her purse on top. Ignoring the nurse’s disapproving frown, she walked to the opposite side of the examining table and touched Mitch’s fist. “Hold onto me.”
His fingers sprung open to twine with hers.
The doctor inserted the sharp needle into Mitch’s ripped flesh.
Jaye studied his face for any sign of pain. The lines across his forehead deepened, but that was all. He fused his gaze to their intertwined hands and his grip remained gentle, his thumb sliding back and forth over her knuckles in a soft, steady rhythm.
Taking advantage of being close again, she took a mental picture of how he looked to file away in her mind. His cropped blond hair was half an inch long and ultra thick. Despite the short length, she couldn’t see his scalp. The small, brown mole on his forehead was slightly darker than his nicely shaped eyebrows—a dark caramel color. The bridge of his nose was straight and slightly broad, testifying he’d managed to play years of football without sustaining a deviated septum. His cheeks were slightly hollow under his cheekbones, evidence he carried very little body fat. His upper lip was thinner than his bottom one, both set in a firm line.
She’d seen his face bearing many expressions—humor, anger, and passion, just to name a few—but the sober mask currently covering his features was the most disturbing. Even his gaze was shuttered, hiding his emotions from her probing gaze.
A tremor ran beneath her skin, whispering the truth along her nerve endings. Over the past four weeks, knowing how he felt had become vitally important.
Tom placed the syringe on a tray and released Mitch’s forearm. “I’ll give you a few moments to get numb. Looks like the bleeding is stopping, which is a good sign. I’ll be back in a minute to finish the job.”
The nurse and doctor left the room.
Mitch glanced at Jaye, his eyes a dull blue from the pain. “Thank you for sitting with us in church yesterday.” His voice was low, like they still sat in the hushed sanctuary. “The boys would have been crushed if you said no.”
“You’re welcome.” In the time since their argument, he’d apologized once and thanked her three times—for the website, for her photographs, and now this. Which one was the real Mitchell Blake? The merciless man with a blistering temper, or the penitent man who acknowledged what she’d done right?
He caressed her hand one more time and opened his fingers, releasing her. Closing his eyes, he didn’t say anything else.
Jaye tested the diced potatoes with a fork. The tines pierced the crispy skin, penetrating the tender insides. She turned down the heat on Mitch’s stove and glanced over her shoulder.
He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the glass of water. The base of the stem was an inch away from the house key she’d put on the kitchen table seven days ago.
Dropping her gaze to his forearm, she breathed a soft sigh of relief. The large gauze bandage was a bright, clean white. He’d stopped bleeding. Jaye wondered if he would have gotten himself to the ER if she hadn’t showed up.
She didn’t want to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t. “Go ahead and take your antibiotic,” she urged. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Her phone chirped. She nudged her cell out of the front pocket of her slacks and glanced at the screen.
“How are you?”
David again. Shoving the phone into her pocket, Jaye jammed the spatula under the potatoes with an angry thrust. Just her luck, the ghosts from her past loved to text her.
Mitch rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh. “I assume that message is from David, since you’re not responding. Does he ever leave you alone?”
“He’ll stop if I ask him to.”
“Why don’t you?” Mitch’s fist thudded onto the kitchen table with a soft thump. “Why does a smart
