Bonus Kisses - Freya Barker Page 0,22

prep done early, I’ve run out of things to do. Sort of. More like I’ve run out of excuses not to tackle Nicky’s clothes.

Mom said something last week when she and Dad dropped by. Then Rafe suggested over the weekend that maybe I’d want to go through her closet.

I don’t. Not really. Touching her stuff, smelling her scent, feeling her absence—I’m not ready to leave this numb blanket I’ve covered myself under. I’m afraid if I even lift a corner, I’ll get sucked into an emotional vortex I won’t be able to find my way out of.

It’s safer this way.

I had a weak moment yesterday when my parents dropped by after church. Mom seemed flat, only making an effort to be engaged with the kids, but barely speaking to Rafe or me. When they left, Dad unexpectedly pulled me into a hug, whispering to me to “give her some time.”

It was more than I’d had from my parents since coming back, and it had me running up the stairs so I could deal with the wave of emotions it evoked in private. I didn’t expect Rafe to follow me, but I suddenly found myself pressed against his chest. I’m ashamed to admit I clung to him, selfishly grabbing the comfort he offered with both hands.

Selfishly—yes—because even after the tears dried, I didn’t make any effort to step away. I’m not sure how long we stood there, but Rafe ended up pulling my arms from around him and disappearing downstairs. It took me a while, but by the time I came down, I’d shoved all my emotions back under that heavy blanket of numbness.

It feels like we’re all on shaky ground, moving cautiously around each other, trying hard not to be the one to upset the fragile balance.

Unable to help myself, I walk over to the bay window and check to see if Rafe’s truck is there. I saw him leave a couple of hours ago, but apparently he hasn’t returned yet. It’s only two; it’ll be another hour and a half before the kids get off the bus.

Maybe I can bake cookies or something for their snack. It’ll give me something to do.

I check the pantry and pull out what ingredients I can find. Hope the kids like oatmeal raisin cookies, because the bag of chocolate chips only had five chips left. Looks like someone’s been snacking.

I’m about to shove the first tray in the oven when I hear the front door and Rafe comes walking into the kitchen—covered in blood.

“Jesus! What happened to you?”

I drop the tray and rush over, my hands already doing a cursory exam of his body before he has a chance to respond.

“I’m fine,” he says, trying to grab my hands but I brush his away. “It’s not all mine.”

I look up in his face and notice a pretty deep gash on the side of his forehead, in addition to a collection of smaller cuts and scrapes. “Wrestling feral cats today?” I mutter, pulling him over to the kitchen table and pushing him down in a chair. “Don’t move.”

He’s still sitting where I left him when I return with the first aid kit. I set it on the table beside him and dig through to find some gauze pads and hydrogen peroxide. I notice him wince when I start cleaning the gash on his forehead.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“It was a calf.”

I stop and look down into his blue eyes, realizing how close we are. “What?”

“I was wrestling a calf,” he clarifies. “Except it was tangled in barbed wire.”

“I see.” My voice sounds breathless. “How is the calf?”

“He’ll live.”

Warning lights go off when his gaze drops down to my mouth and I force myself to focus on his injury. My hands shake slightly as I finish cleaning the wound and use butterfly bandages to close it.

“That could’ve done with a few stitches. It may leave a scar.”

“Don’t care about that.”

He wouldn’t. He’s not particularly vain. Heck, I doubt he ever even uses a brush or a comb on that unruly mop.

“Anywhere else?” I ask, as I dig my fingers into his hair, probing his scalp for more injuries.

“I don’t know.” He sounds almost pained.

I drop my eyes to his face to find his closed. When I look down farther I see the front of his shirt is a mess. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?” His eyes fly open.

“Some of the blood is wet. I think it’s yours.”

He looks down and pulls the shirt away from his skin. “Well,