“Sit down,” I order. My tone is bossy, even to my own ears.
Grudgingly, he plops onto the edge of a metal folding chair, looking less than comfortable as he stares at the crumbs scattered on top of the table. Rhodes is shit at cleaning up his dinner, and I have a hunch the mess bothers Henry. Since our stay at the hotel in Creekside, I’ve started noticing things about him. About the way he carries himself. About the way he washes his hands.
About the way he zeroes in on messes while trying to maintain his composure. Like right now. When he’s clearly uncomfortable. If only I could figure out if it’s because of a crumby table or a throbbing headache.
“Hold this,” I tell him.
Buchanan takes the pink-stained dishcloth from my grasp and keeps it pressed against the cut above his eye while I wipe the little crumbles from Rhodes’ PB&J into my hand, cleaning the space and washing my hands in the kitchen sink.
“Better?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he argues.
“Sure you are.” Closing the distance between us, I take over washcloth duty again and slowly peel it away from his head so I can examine the damage.
Yikes.
The cut is pretty deep and still bleeding. But head wounds tend to bleed a lot, so maybe it’s not too terrible?
“How bad is it?” he asks, shifting slightly in his chair.
I grimace and shrug one shoulder. “Semi-deep, but nothing crazy. Pretty straight split. Let me see if we have any superglue.”
I start to step away from him, but he grabs my wrist, keeping me in place. “Superglue?”
“Unless you want to go to the hospital for stitches,” I offer. “Since the cut is on your face, it might not be a bad idea. I can pay for your Uber or…” My voice trails off, and I look down to where he’s holding me. His long fingers are wrapped around my wrist, and his thumb is drawing gentle circles along the inside. It feels good and sends tingles up my arms, no matter how inappropriate it is. Because he shouldn’t be touching me like this. Not when we agreed to one night only. Not when he’s my boss.
When Buchanan notices what he’s doing, he lets me go and sets his palm on the table. His knuckles are red and split from hitting Darryl, but since they are the lesser of the two injuries, I don’t comment, making a note to grab him an ice pack from the freezer in a minute.
“Superglue is fine,” he grumbles.
His injury. Right.
My eyes flick to his. “It might scar more.”
“Chicks dig scars, don’t they?”
My mouth twitches. I can’t decide if he’s being serious or if the guy actually has a sense of humor. “Yeah. We do.” I grab some ice and wrap it in a paper towel, offering it to him.
“For your hand,” I clarify.
He looks down at his bruised knuckles and nods, pressing the DIY ice pack against the back of his hand. I can feel his eyes on me as I search the cupboards along the back wall for the rest of my supplies, our silence growing more and more stifling with every passing second.
But part of me wonders what would’ve happened if he wasn’t here. If he hadn’t stepped in.
Rhodes would’ve intervened, I’m sure of it.
And if he had, he’d be sitting here, letting me tend to his wounds with a smart-ass comment on the tip of his tongue instead of the angry businessman who looks downright lethal. And I wouldn’t have any flutters in my abdomen. I wouldn’t feel flushed. My heart wouldn’t be thumping out of my chest. I wouldn’t feel embarrassed about what he may or may not have overheard. Why? Because Rhodes wouldn’t care either way.
Buchanan, on the other hand? I’m not so sure.
When I find a tiny tube of unopened superglue along with some alcohol wipes and a dinosaur Band-Aid, I set the tools on the table and ask, “What are you doing here anyway?”
He shifts in his seat, keeping his unwavering attention on his busted-up hand. “Came to ask you something.”
“Ask me what?”
His features pull as his eyes meet mine, causing another flutter low in my stomach.
“I want to know why you didn't tell me someone was harassing you at the last game.” His gaze is so sharp I’m pretty sure it can cut glass.
My head falls.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to acknowledge the situation or how I handled it. I only want it to go away. I want everything to go away.
But the funny thing about bad decisions? Their consequences always follow. Like dating Shorty. Or creating an OF account. Or giving all my money away until I need to take handouts, no matter how much I despise them.
“Mia,” Buchanan warns.
I fuss with the First Aid supplies, arranging them on the table in a straight line. “Because it didn’t matter.”
“Didn’t. Matter?” he rumbles.
“I shouldn’t have left the game in the first place.”
“You should feel safe at your job.”
“I’m a woman.” With my teeth, I rip the corner of the alcohol wipe package, pull the small square out, and remove the stained washcloth from Henry’s head one more time. “I should feel safe everywhere.”
“Yeah. You should.”
“If only life was a Disney movie, right? Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. Next time, I’ll stay and make sure I don’t miss a second of the game.”
His jaw is locked tight, and he shakes his head. “I don’t give a shit about the game. I give a shit about you not telling me what was really going on.”
“Yeah. Well.” I lift my shoulder. “Sorry.”
He stays quiet, those dark eyes bouncing around my face as if searching for all my secrets, though he isn’t stupid enough to believe he’ll actually find them.
Still, he doesn’t believe me. To be fair, I don’t believe me, either. I’m not sorry. I don’t trust the guy. I don’t trust anyone.
So, sue me.
“Why was he propositioning you?” Buchanan tilts his head toward the front of SeaBird, hinting he’s talking about the Darryl incident instead of the stranger at the last game.
Because I have two incidents worth discussing in the first place.
Good one, Mia.
I bite the inside of my cheek, my frustration oozing from my pores. I let out a soft breath and admit, “Because my ex is an ass.”
“Shorty?” he clarifies.
I should be surprised he knows my dating history––and part of me is––but the other part? I guess I suspected it. Buchanan’s always kept an eye on me. Looking out for me from a distance. But actually discussing my asshole ex with me or asking me anything personal in general is new. I don’t like it.
“Can we not do this?” I ask. “I appreciate your help tonight, but airing out all my dirty laundry doesn’t exactly sound like a great way to end my evening.”
Again, those dark eyes pin me in place, and tension lines my stomach.
He gives in and dips his chin. “I can be patient.”
I scoff as relief spreads through me. “You really think with enough patience I’m gonna cave and open up to you?”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, grabbing his chin and tilting his head toward me so I can get a better look at his cut. “Ouch.”