I opened my eyes.
Cupboards painted bright red. Little white ceramic knobs to open them looking like polka dots in that sea of bright. Soffits papered in wallpaper that had a white background, green vines and leaves, white and yellow flowers and big fat strawberries. Cream fridge, the old kind with the bulging front, huge handles and curved edges. Big, old gas burner stove. Someone had cut out some cupboards to insert a cream fronted dishwasher next to the sink. Butcher block countertops that had seen so much use they didn’t have grooves, they had waves and their edges were rounded. A big, beat up farm table in the middle of the room with six chairs around it, only three matching, all of their seats sporting big, red poofy cushions tied to their backs. A huge bowl filled with apples, oranges and bananas in the middle. The countertops covered with appliances and crocks holding utensils. A backdoor that led now to darkness but its window was covered in wispy white curtains held back with red sashes. A huge window over the double-bowled, cream ceramic sink with the same wispy white, red-sashed curtains hanging. Another window at the side under which there was a low, wood-framed cabinet, its doors inlaid with punched tin, its top holding a vase of slightly wilting flowers, some greeting cards turned on their sides and a bowl full of keys, change and other life detritus.
My eyes swept the space.
Many Thanksgiving dinners had been cooked there. Christmases. Birthdays. And just because you had to eat.
I loved it.
Every inch.
Every stinking inch.
“First aid kit.” I heard, jumped and turned to see Gray sauntering down the hall toward me carrying a big box, the bottom blue, the top white, the size the size of the tackle box of a very serious fisherman. If that was his first aid kit, I had a feeling he had a history with more than just Cocky Guy Buddy.
“That’s a big first aid kit,” I blurted and again he rewarded me with a grin.
“Man now, Ivey but used to be a boy,” he muttered intriguingly, deposited the box on the table then flicked the latches and flipped it open.
It was stuffed full.
He grew up here.
This wasn’t his house, it was his grandmother’s.
I wondered if that was a fib or something else.
I wondered a lot of things.
None of which I would ask.
“Alcohol wipes, plasters, scissors,” he murmured, digging and pulling the stuff out as I dumped my purse on the table, unwrapped my scarf and shrugged off my coat, tossing them over the back of a chair. Then his neck twisted and his eyes hit me. “We’re good.”
I nodded, my head dropping, my experienced eyes scanning the stuff then I looked up at him and ordered, “Sit.”
One side of his mouth hitched up a bit then he shrugged off his leather jacket, hooked it on the back of a chair, unwrapped his scarf, tossed that on top and he sat, tipping his face up to me.
I put out of my mind how handsome he was, how, if I just bent at the waist, I could kiss his mouth and when I managed that, I got busy.
I tore open the wipe, tossed the packet on the table and cautiously dabbed at the cut.
He drew in air on a hiss and his head jerked.
“Sorry,” I whispered, for some reason affected by his reaction deeply. Too deeply. Hating that I hurt him. Actually hating it.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t done this before. Before (and after) we’d instigated the pool hustle, made it an art, Casey saw a lot of action that wasn’t so good, ended up in cuts and bruises which meant I was in this same spot, clean up and resident untrained nurse.
I didn’t like it when I hurt Casey while tending to him but I really didn’t like to make Gray feel more pain for me.
So I did something crazy. I did something stupid. I totally lost who I was, where I was, who I was with and I did exactly what I did when I worked on Casey.
I leaned close, dabbed light and after each dab, I leaned closer and I blew air gently between my lips against the cut.
I did this three times before Gray said in a voice I would never forget in my whole life. Never. Not if I lived like he said earlier, to be three hundred. It was soft, it was quiet and it was gentle to the point of tender.
“Dollface, you blowin’ on me defeats the purpose of the antiseptic.”
My body shot straight and my eyes shot to his.
He grinned and kept speaking
“Feels good though.”
“Sorry,” I whispered.
Then his eyes changed. Those beautiful blue eyes with their russet tipped lashes. They changed in a way I also wouldn’t forget. Not ever. I’d remember them every day, dozens of times a day for the rest of my life.
And they changed to become just like his voice had been. Gentle to the point of tender.
“Don’t be,” he whispered back.
My heart started slamming in my chest.
What was with me?
I had to pull myself together.
So I pulled myself together and kept gently dabbing, cleaned the cut, cleaned away the blood then expertly cut the plasters, pressed together the opened flesh and laid the three, thin, precisely cut strips to keep it closed.
Then I took a step back and declared, “Done.”
His eyes captured mine.
“Made fast work of that.”
I made no response.
His eyes held mine.
“Practice,” he guessed accurately.
I turned to the first aid kit and started tidying.
I felt Gray come to his feet beside me; he tagged the used wipes and their packages and took them to the sink. He opened the cupboard under them, tossed them in the bin there, closed it and turned to me.
“Bed,” he stated.
I nodded.
“I’ll show you your room.”
“Okay,” I replied.
He led, I followed and he turned off lights as he did. He moved up the stairs, me trailing.
Upstairs, same as downstairs, settled, warm, welcome and everything had been there awhile.
He turned left at the top and took me to a room where the lights were on, shining softly and invitingly into the hall. He disappeared through the door and I followed him to see he’d stopped.
“Bathroom other end of the hall, last door on your right,” he told me then he invited, “Make yourself at home.”
I tore my eyes from the room with its white-painted, curlicue iron bed (tall head and tall but still shorter than the head foot) covered in an unbelievably beautiful wedding ring quilt, a folded soft looking blanket at the bottom and big fluffy pillows with ruffly edges. The room’s floors warm, honeyed wood covered in a big, thick, pastel-colored rug with tangled fringe at two sides, its colors faded but it had started pastel too, I could tell. Jumbled mismatched furniture, some painted white but there were chips, some gleaming wood, all charming and one dresser had a big, oval mirror affixed to the top. On the nightstands, both turned on and glowing, tall, thin lamps with dotted, glass balls as lampshades, crystals dangling from the bottom. And on the walls, prints of flowers in frames distressed from age, not meant to be that way.
It was countrified beauty at its finest. A room you’d expect in a farmhouse. A room you’d pay big money to rent in some B&B because the owners had paid big money to make it that way. A room that was just that enchanting naturally.
“Sleep well, Ivey,” Gray muttered.
I nodded.
He lifted a hand, curled his long fingers on my upper arm, gave me a squeeze and walked out the door.
I sucked in another breath.
Then I pulled it together, moved to the door and closed it.
Then I decided to get ready for bed fast, get in bed, turn off the lights, close my eyes and try to erase this from my mind.
Tomorrow, he’d take me back to the hotel. Tomorrow, I’d pack our stuff. Tomorrow, Casey would come back, we’d load up the car and we’d be away.