above me with an outstretched hand. “I’m hoping the first task on your list might be to help me out.”
“Help you out how?” I pause, not eager to place my hand in his. Part of my reluctance is due to my past. There’s more than that, though. I don’t fear him hurting me. My hesitation stems from something different. Something I can’t pinpoint.
When I finally give in, sliding my palm against his, I hold my breath.
His warm, calloused fingers grip mine. Tight. Strong. He pulls me effortlessly to my feet, making me shiver.
“Don’t look so scared.” He drops his hold and takes a step back. “You stitched my head in Greece. I’m only hoping you’ll work your magic to help take those suckers out.”
4
Luca
She follows me to the kitchen where I grab a notepad, pen, and a chair, then continue into the main bathroom. The blade, antiseptic, tweezers, and pile of tissues I attempted to use yesterday are still spread out on the counter as if waiting for the torture to begin.
Just like in Greece, when I hadn’t been able to see the injury on the side of my head to stitch the wound, I now can’t remove the cotton firmly embedded in my skin. And I’ve left it too long for the removal, not wanting to ask Sarah for help and also not feeling comfortable pushing Penny. But she’s given me an inch. Maybe it’s time to strive for a mile.
I place the chair down in front of the basin and meet her gaze through the room-length mirror. “Are you still happy to do this?”
“Of course.” She nods. “Sit.”
I take my place on the chair, sitting tall. I’m determined not to let her nearness get to me. Not under my skin or in my head. It feels like a lifetime since I opened my mouth in Greece and let the stupidity of flirtation burst out. But my attraction hasn’t wavered. If anything, it’s intensified.
Seeing her all helpless and meek taunts me into protecting her. And that baggy sweater and the loose sweatpants do nothing to temper my memory of her perfect thighs, slim waist, and perky tits.
She’s a siren.
An intense trigger to my temptation.
She walks around me, moving to the injured side of my head, her eyes gentle as she takes in the healing wound. “It looks like you’ve been taking good care of it.”
“Haven’t taken much care at all. I attribute any awesomeness to the nurse who stitched me up. She did a remarkable job.”
A smile teases her lips. “I appreciate the praise. I’m also thankful you don’t have the ability to see the error of your words. The stitching resembles a hack job at best.”
“I’m not a pretty boy. I don’t care what it looks like as long as the risk of infection is gone.”
She reaches out, her fingers lightly brushing through the shortened lengths of hair around the wound, inspiring goose bumps to blanket my arms. “Your skin has started to heal over the thread. It might feel uncomfortable when I pull it out.”
I can smell her.
Actually, I can smell me on her, which is fucking worse. She must be using my shampoo. Even though I’ve placed five years’ worth of flower-scented products in her bathroom.
“Do your worst.” I swallow over the unwanted build of lust. “As long as you don’t leave anything behind, I’m good.”
She nods and grabs the blade and tweezers, dousing them in antiseptic, then returns to her position at my side. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
She is.
The agonizing discomfort of her proximity is fucking killing me. The curiosity surrounding her use of my shampoo is a thorn in my side, too. Why does she want to smell like me?
She leans in, those fingers resting against my scalp as her breathing brushes my skin.
She’s everywhere—in my lungs, in my head, forever in every room of this fucking house. And of course, my dick doesn’t want to miss out on the admiration. It twinges to life as I clench my jaw, hard, determined to keep my libido in check.
Her first nick of the blade is tentative. So goddamn gentle and feather-light.
“Don’t hold back, shorty. You’re going to have to be more firm than that if you don’t want to spend all day staring at my skull.”
Her mouth kicks into a smile, but she doesn’t change her tender style as she uses tweezers to gently pick at the cotton.
It’s nice to see her smiling. Really smiling. Not the fake-ass, untruthful curve of lips she