by Ella James
Mrs. Haywood died in last fall, on a weekend I was visiting my mom in Memphis. Mr. Haywood didn’t want anyone at the house the day or two after—in fact, the door was locked and the lights were off—and after that, he jetted back to New York. I heard he’d put the home for sale a short time later, through the teeny Gatlinburg grapevine. So the last time I was here was over a year ago.
I hold my breath as my eyes scan the open space. Not a single mote of lint seems out of place, making me wonder if he’s living here yet.
“Hello?”
I take another small step forward and train my gaze on the left side of the open space, where one set of stairs tilts downward and another flight curves elegantly upward to the third level.
He’s probably not here. Guilt churns in me. I should have followed right behind him, rather than pace around the woods for half an hour being nervous and uncertain.
Just when I’m about to turn and go, I hear a creak above me.
Could he upstairs? I can’t just go up there…can I? What if he’s gone to get patched up and he comes back?
I have a good excuse, I guess.
I walk quietly into the kitchen. It’s wrong to snoop in other people’s things, but I tell myself this will help me discern whether he’s living here. If the refrigerator is empty, there will be no reason to go traipsing around on the third level.
I pull the door open and— Red Bull. Yikes. That’s a lot of Red Bull in there. Meaning—he must be living here? Or needs a lot of caffeine while he hunts on his new acreage? I make a face. Red Bull is so gross. The refrigerator also harbors a few apples, some apple jelly, a carton of eggs, and a jug of orange juice.
Okay—so maybe he is living here. I’m a super snooper. An interloper. Not just any interloper. One who kicked him in the head and made him bleed. I squeeze my eyes shut. I should go now.
But what if he’s upstairs, passed out?
What if?
Didn’t that Facebook executive’s husband die from falling off a treadmill and hitting his head? I think he did.
I blow my breath out. I’m going to do it. Because I know if I don’t, I’ll wonder till I drive myself insane. And really, can I embarrass myself any more than I already have by attacking the man in the first place?
I stride into the living area, which smells like leather and firewood.
“Hello?” I call, more loudly than before.
When there’s no answer—just a lonely echo—I start up the stairs. My heart begins to pound. Do I remember CPR? Only on bears!
Fuck me.
At the top of the staircase, I hesitate. The stairs lead to the midpoint of a hallway, so I can’t see directly down it without taking a few more steps. Which I do, slowly and quietly. From the right side of the hall, I see a crack of light. A crack of light—which means a door is open. Maybe the master bedroom door.
I’ve come this far. I figure what the hell. If he’s up here and not answering my creepy interloper cries, there’s probably something wrong. My heart pounds. I hope there’s nothing wrong. I walk slowly toward the light, which does indeed turn out to be a door ajar.
I stand just in front of it. “Hello?”
My voice is softer now, because I’m scared of what I’m going to find. I should say something else, but I can barely breathe. I push the door open and— holy master bedroom, Batman! I blink a few times, surprised by the opulence. And the gun. There’s a gun on the bed. A really big gun on the—
The hunting rifle. That’s his hunting rifle, Einstein.
He’s been here! Where is he now?
My body goes ice cold, then flaming hot. Fuck me. Fuck fuck fuck me. I walk further inside, so I can check the floor on the opposite side of the bed.
Please let him be okay…
That’s when I notice another door. A door through which I can see his gorgeous back and shoulders. I can see he’s got his head down on the bathroom counter.
Shit!
I bustle in, and he is up, arms raised, eyes wide, looming over me before I can even blink.
“Whoa…” I wobble back.
“What the fuck?”
I blink a few times, taking in his bloody head and wary eyes. He gives me a long look, then lowers his arms.
“I’m sorry. I thought…” My cheeks sting as I try to remember what exactly I was thinking mere minutes ago. I wanted you to make me feel the feels. Not just that, I tell myself defensively. I did want to check on him.
“You thought what?” He looks steely. Guarded.
I rub my temple, peeking at him under my curved hand. “I thought maybe you passed out or something.” I look down at my feet, then back up—just in time to see him shut his eyes in what looks like exasperation. His jaw tightens. A millisecond later, he opens his eyes. They look blank. Not angry, just…unreadable.
“Where’d you get the key?” His tone and stance are neutral now. As if we’re talking about weather.
And still, my stomach flutters with anxiety. “It’s the spare one from the flower bed outside.”
I watch his face for clues as to how he’s feeling, and a drop of blood spills down his brow.
“Oh no! It’s still bleeding?” I look him over, wondering if he’s grumpy because he’s about to keel over. That’s when I see the small tube in his hand.
I frown and lean a little closer. “Is that Dermabond?”
“It is.”
“You’re going to glue it up yourself?”
His hand goes to his forehead, long, strong fingers rubbing at the blood there. “Yes.” His eyes burn mine. I get the feeling he’s using them to tell me something vitally important, but I can’t decipher what.
I say the first thing that pops into my head. “Let me help.”
His eyes widen.
“I know, I know. It doesn’t seem to make sense, but I have opposing thumbs and I can see it from an angle you can’t. And anyway, I did this…so I should fix it.”
My throat tightens. My eyes feel hot, and all I can think is someone new moved in, a really pretty guy moved right next door, and what do I do? I go make the worst impression possible!
Holy hell. I cannot believe I’m on the verge of crying. What a lunatic. That’s what he thinks, you know that’s what he thinks, you’re such a freak. I refrain from blinking, willing the few tears my eyes have brewed to disappear.
His dark brows scrunch, giving him a vaguely eagle-like look. I can see the moment he notices the feelings pooling in my eyes, because his sharp expression gentles.
“What’s the matter?”
I cover my face and shake my head. My heart is pounding. Only you, I snarl at myself.
I suck a small breath in, rub two fingers over my eyes, and pull my hands down. (Why hide now?) “I’m sorry. This is not my day.” I shake my head. “I know it’s not yours either. Let me help you fix it. Then I’ll go.”
He looks mystified. Maybe concerned. I don’t know which. He steps closer and I get so hot, I think I might catch fire.
When there’s just a foot or two between us, he tilts his head. I force my wet gaze to hold his gorgeous blue-gray one. Which, I can’t help noticing, is filled with nothing but what I’m coining concerned curiosity.
I have the urge to roll my lips, or cover them with my hand. I’m not sure when I last stood so close to a man who wasn’t my brother or Jamie’s boyfriend. I sigh. “This whole thing is embarrassing, and unfortunate for you, I realize. I am really sorry. I’m just— I’m your weird new neighbor.” I tilt my head back, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. “Heaven help you.”
When I dare to look at him again, I find that same kind concern in the press of his lips and the tension at his brow.
“I swear, I’m not always such a nutjob. Sit down—if you want to. I’ll do what you tell me to if you’re a Dermabond pro.” I hold my hand up. “I’m just here to lend a hand.”
I wipe my eyes and paste on an apologetic smile.
It occurs to me a half-second too late that I am snariling at
him. Perfect. My eyes shut—on their own accord.
I suck a big breath in and hold it in my chest. I’m lonely, I realize. It hits me with gale force as I stand here in my neighbor’s bathroom.
I’m so lonely, I could shrivel up and die.
That’s when I feel a light touch on my cheek.
EIGHT
GWENNA
I stand painfully still, my eyes shut, my heart throbbing, trying to decide if I’m imagining the touch. Everything but my sore heart is paused mid-furl, awaiting new life. I wait like an idiot—until I hear a little tap a few feet away. I open my eyes and find him seated on the stool.
He’s got his right hand around his left one, and he’s looking down. The look on his face reminds me of the one I used to see in the mirror at Helga’s office in those first months of 2012. When Mom or Dad or Rett would take me and I’d just sit on the couch, occasionally catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind her chair.
His jaw is slightly tight. He looks like he’s trying to hold onto something: anger, maybe, or sadness.
My own sadness rocks in my chest like an ocean wave, so deep it threatens to choke me.
Of course he didn’t touch your cheek. He doesn’t even know you.
I really want to turn and run straight home, but that’s not what I do. I find my feet stepping over to him, as if we’re linked by an invisible cord.
I can’t seem to find the nerve to look him in the face—not after how insane I’ve acted since I got here—so I only guess his eyes are still on his lap. As I stop mere inches from his bare, tattooed back, he reaches into a brown, tin-looking box on the counter and draws out a saline-filled syringe.
For the barest second, our eyes meet in the mirror.
I step over to the sink, where there’s a bottle of Dial soap. I wash my hands. My gaze flicks toward him as I rub my soapy hands together. It bumps into his. He’s watching me. Of course he is. You’re the only other human in the room, Gwen.
I dry my hands on a beige towel hanging from a rack that’s standing on the counter, oddly comforted by the knowledge that neither of us is going to talk until I take my place behind him again.
When I station myself there, he hands me the syringe. “Have you irrigated a wound before?” His words are low and clipped.
I nod. All signs of tears are gone now. I feel numb inside. I can’t find the energy to tell him the wounds I’ve irrigated were on bears.
With no other words, he shuts his eyes. The stool has no back, so I can see the muscles of his back shift as he relaxes just a little. My gaze catches on his ink, but I don’t let myself linger.
I reach for his hair, a nervous fullness in my throat. My body flushes as my fingers sift through his dark curls. All around the wound, his hair is damp, so I can see his scalp with ease. I can see the long scars, making an imperfect pink semi-circle just over his ear.
My stomach twists. “You had a craniotomy?”
His eyes open, and I can feel his back and shoulders stiffen. As if in answer, the wound—along the rightmost side—seeps.
His shrewd blue eyes are blank and maybe hard; I can’t tell what he’s thinking, so I’m surprised when he says, “Nothing that a little glue can’t fix, Miss White.”
Despite the sternness of his face, his tone is unmistakably gentle.
I nod. And breathe. Should I tell him that I had one, too? Mine is on the back of my head, safely hidden underneath my hair. I swallow. Then I pull a little on each side of the wound, until it parts and I can gauge the depth.
Seeing that pink skin makes my stomach clench. “Does it hurt?” I whisper.
“No.”
I don’t believe him, but I rinse the wound with saline, and he doesn’t move at all. I’m standing so close to his back that I can feel the heat of him. I’m trying not to look down at his amazing body, so as I let the saline sink in, I let my palm hover over his hair and train my eyes on it.
“I think you can wash your hair, with a washcloth,” I say softly, “but not until the Dermabond sets.” Of course, he probably knows that. My cheeks warm. I call forth my long-benched acting skills and try to keep my voice casual and steady. “I could maybe wash on the area that’s not right by the cut.”
We look at each other—me trying to hide the way each sight of his show-stopping face makes my stomach twist; him seeming steady and reserved. Removed.
“Why don’t you let me?” I say in my new, faux calm, assertive tone. “I can see the area better than you can. In a minute I can use some gauze to dry around the wound and then I’ll glue it and be gone.”
He frowns, and I think I see one of his cheeks pull in a little, as if he’s biting the inside of it. That draws my attention to his lips. Dear baby Jesus, they look even more plump in the bathroom light. Perfect, succulent, and somehow very masculine, surrounded by that shadow on his chin and cheeks.
His tongue rolls out along the lower lip, and I have to look away. I see a towel on the counter—wet already.
“Is this…” I reach for it, stepping away from him—thank God.
“That one is fine.”
I wet it while he sits there, gaze trained on his hands again. I notice blood on his fingers and pass him the towel. “Here—I’ll get another one for your hair.”
To the right of the long countertop, there’s a bank of cabinets. I find a few more towels there and set all but the washcloth on the countertop beside his first aid kit. As I stand back at the sink, waiting for warm water, it strikes me how strange this whole thing is—in addition to awkward, painful, and humiliating.
I don’t even know his name. I attacked him. I attacked my brand new neighbor. The neighbor that saved my business by purchasing this place. I kicked him in the head while he was out hunting. Now I’ve burst into his house and forced my nursing assistance on him. I’m overwhelmed by the company of a male human and worried about ruining my panties because he’s so breathtakingly attractive.
I wonder what the hell he thinks of me. Probably that I’m mentally unstable. Or worse…the pathetic handicapped woman who has nothing else to do but push herself on strangers.
I can feel his eyes on me as I hold the towel under the warm water, but I don’t meet them. I’m far too embarrassed. When my towel is warm and wet, I return to stand beside him. He tilts his head slightly rightward, so I have better access to the gash, and as he does, I notice the thick, pink rope of scar tissue atop his left shoulder blade.
“Mm.” I don’t mean to make a sound; the murmur escapes me.
His eyes rise to mine in the mirror, his sharp brows notching slightly.
“Sorry.” My fingertip hovers over the scar for a moment before I stroke some hair about two inches from his wound, gathering the stiff curls in one hand and using the warm towel to clean them. His head is down again, so I can’t see his face.
What is that huge scar from? I break my self-imposed no-looking rule and sneak another peek at it, finding that it actually starts up by his neck and twines over his left shoulder, down his shoulder blade. It’s so thick and jagged.
Not your business.
I try to settle my attention on his hair.
“You have really pretty hair,” I murmur. I figure the least I can do is be polite and try to put the man at ease. “You know what’s funny?” I ask, rubbing the wash cloth over a handful of curls. “I don’t think I even know your name.”
“Barrett.” The word is warm and rumbling. I notice the presence of the “t”s on the end and realize he’s not from around here, not from anywhere below the Mason-Dixon Line.
“Anyone ever call you Bear?” I ask him, teasing.
“Yeah.”
I release the hair in my left hand and take another section of wet curls, and when it’s clear he’s not going to expound on his nickname, I say, “I’m sorry I’ve put you in a position to need Bear rehab. In all my years of doing taekwondo, I’ve never hurt someone like this. I think— I guess you scared me. Like I said.”
He’s silent
, still, although I feel his shoulders tense. My eyes run down them—I can’t seem to help it—and I notice the ink covering most of the right one: a black emblem featuring a sword. It looks military-ish.
Oh Lord. If he got his head injury in the Army, I’m sure all he needs is to have it split open again so he can be reminded of the circumstances.
I blow out the breath I’m holding. Just get this done and go. I rake my fingers down his nape. “I think I need to glue the wound now, if you still want me to do it.”
His head lifts so our eyes meet in the mirror. His mouth is pressed into a line, and for a long moment, I think he’s going to say “no.” Instead he says, “I’ll hold the right side.”
He lifts his right arm and presses on the right side of the wound with his fingertips.
“Hang on,” I say softly. “I think I should dab it with some gauze.”
He moves his hand out of his hair, handing me a gauze square from the little first aid box. I push his hair out of the way and dab the wound. “Okay.”
His fingers come back, pressing the right side of the wound toward the left side: helping hold it closed. My left hand does the same thing, and when the two sides are joined—a jagged, fire-red puzzle piece fitted together—I grab the Dermabond from where I’ve left it and squeeze the tube to get it going. Then I rub the padded tip from the top of the slash to the bottom. I repeat the process three or four times, then go the other way: from bottom to top. I roll it over the skin a few more times, because I’d rather have too much glue than too little.
“Okay. I think that should be enough.” I lift my right hand, still holding the Dermabond. “I can hold the right side if your arm is tired.”
He smirks.
I smile. “I was starting to think you might be part statue. Or just hating my guts.”
I press my lips together.
Why say that? Do you have to make things awkward?
“The hate would be totally justified,” I ramble. Realizing I’ve almost obligated him to reassure me, I make a frenzied attempt to change the subject: “Hey, are you in the Army or Marines or something?”
