“Hey,” I admonished. “That was not a hasty plan. That was well thought out.”
“You planned that?” he asked incredulously.
“A girl needs to have a plan,” I said sensibly, setting aside the cloth and reaching for a bit of antibacterial cream.
“Let me get this straight.” He began. “You don’t lock your door at night and your idea of a plan to save yourself from a home invasion is a pink razor and a can of hairspray?”
He said it like it was a bad idea.
“The door was an accident,” I explained and leaned closer to dab a little of the cream on his cheek. It wasn’t a bad cut. I figured it would be healed in a week or so.
I pulled back a little to study my handiwork. “I don’t think it needs a bandage.”
“Bandages are for girls.”
I smiled, but when our gazes crashed, an odd sort of feeling came over me and it was hard to breathe. Without thinking, I reached up and traced the cleft in his chin, my forefinger dipping in gently and then sliding across his jaw.
His eyes were closed when I pulled away and he had this look… this look of peace on his face. On impulse, I brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.
Then I realized that I was doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t and pulled away. “Let me see your hand,” I said, ignoring the fact my voice sounded like I hadn’t spoken in days.
He held it out between us and I pulled away the red-dotted paper towel. The cut was fairly deep and a little jagged. Probably because my razor had three rows of blades. A little pinch of guilt stung my chest when I realized I’d done this to him.
Then I reminded myself he didn’t knock. And he stood me up.
I didn’t feel as bad after that.
I dabbed at the cut with the cloth, noting that it was still bleeding lightly. I applied some more of the antibacterial cream and then pulled out a couple bandages. He made a sound, and I smiled. “Care to change your previous statement about bandages and girls?”
“How about bandages applied by girls are manly.”
I snorted and worked in silence. The whole time I fixed him up, I avoided his stare and I avoided touching him more than necessary.
When he was cleaned up, I noted the redness on his knuckles. I ran my fingertips over the skin. “Is this from earlier?”
“Yeah.”
I sat back on my haunches and gazed up at him.
“What the hell is going on? What are you doing here?”
His answer was the last thing I expected.
10
Blue
Her touch made me wish the guy landed more punches. Her touch made me wish the cut on my hand was just a little bit worse.
Her touch made me want to touch her. To reach out and cup her face in my palm, to stroke the side of her neck with my thumb… to press my lips completely against hers.
In that moment I wasn’t an undercover cop. She wasn’t pissed at me for all the shitty stuff I’d done. I was just a guy sitting in front of a girl whose heart made mine beat a little unevenly.
I knew I shouldn’t be here. Involving her in any aspect of my life was just wrong.
Yet here I was. She was like my own personal siren, calling me closer, towing me in.
At first I thought I could come here, give her a lame excuse for my behavior, and make it so she wasn’t so mad at me. The thought of her out there day after day, thinking bad thoughts about me was unacceptable.
I knew we couldn’t be together, but I couldn’t stand her hating me.
But then she attacked me.
Like a little fierce hell cat, dashing out of the dark with a can of hairspray and a freaking pink razor. I would laugh if it didn’t scare me to the balls of my feet.
She definitely wasn’t a damsel in distress. Anyone who crossed her would have a hell of a fight.
But in the end she wouldn’t win.
She was too small, to naïve, and far too unprepared.
Any woman whose best plan was a can of hairspray needed some serious help. My skin crawled with what could have happened here tonight if I hadn’t been the one to walk through her door. Shit, she was half drunk, uncoordinated, and sick as hell.
I’d never seen anyone throw up so much after so few drinks.
Of course, I wasn’t a fool. I knew it hadn’t just been the alcohol that sent her racing into the bathroom. It was a culmination of events, many of them (okay, all of them) entirely my fault.
How the hell did she get so wrapped up in all of this so fast?
That first haircut was a mistake on so many levels.
But every time I looked at her, I wanted to keep making the same “mistake” over and over again.
“Blue?” she asked softly, getting up from her place beside me and packing up the first aid kit.
I blinked and watched her move. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About my answer.” She asked me what was going on. I should lie. I should make something up. I should be a jerk and piss her off so she would never come near me again.
I wasn’t going to.
“You’re not going to tell me anything are you?” she said, coming out of the bathroom and standing in the center of the room, watching me.
She looked so damn cute in her little cotton shorts and striped T-shirt. Her hair was damp and ruffled and her cheeks were pale.
“I shouldn’t,” I began, and her shoulders slumped. “But I am.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine.
“We had a good time on our first date, right?” I began.
Her eyes narrowed and her jaw jutted out a little stubbornly. “Are you fishing for compliments?”
“No.” I sighed. “It just seemed like we had a really good time.”
“And then you never called.” She finished.
“It wasn’t because I didn’t want to.”
“Oh?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let me guess. You lost your phone. No wait, your dog ate my number. Then you lost your memory and forgot where I lived.”
“I don’t have a dog,” I quipped.
She didn’t think it was funny.
I sighed. “Right after I dropped you off that night, I got called into work.” She didn’t shoot out a smartass comeback so I figured I had her attention. “I got assigned a case that kept me out of town for a long time.”
“They didn’t have phones where you went?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t allowed to have contact with anyone I knew. Not even my family.”
Her eyes widened. “Like you went undercover?”