Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Jeez, you’re bossy.” But he returns to his seat as ordered.
I pull the ottoman from the reading chair over to the edge of the bed, then sit. Placing the kit on the bed next to Samuel, I pop it open and pull out the bandages, taking a quick inventory of what I have to work with. Then I start cleaning up the gash on his finger.
He studies me for a moment. “Didn’t think it got me so deep.”
“What was even in that box that could cut you?”
“Dunno. This and that.” His expression softens as he watches me some more. “This is adorable. You, cleaning up the vet tech’s wound, like he can’t do it himself. I’m the one trained in this.”
I shrug it off. “Well, you’re the one who’s taking care of others all the time. Someone needs to take care of you.”
“And is that person you?”
“Right now it is. Once your cut is bandaged up, this ends.”
“Hmm. Better take your time with the bandage, then.”
I meet his eyes. He peers down at me with a cocky expression, appearing proud of himself. I don’t know how he manages to turn every situation between us into something he’s got an imaginary leash on, able to tug it in whatever direction he pleases. Whether that direction is toward him. Away from him. About him. He takes a disarming yet gentle control of everything, even when I’m the one with his wounded arm in my grasp. It makes no sense.
And then: “Did he treat you well?”
His question is uttered so softly, I barely hear it. I part my lips, taken aback by his abrupt change of energy. “What?”
“Did he treat you well?” Samuel repeats just as softly.
I squint. “You … You mean Cole?”
“No, I mean Santa Claus.”
My eyes narrow. “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
He smirks. Then his voice goes soft again. “Did you have a nice afternoon on the town with him? He was kind to you? Treated you well? I just want to know. No reason. Makin’ some totally innocent conversation here.”
What’s making him speak so sensitively now? “Yes. He treated me well.” I give it some thought. “Afternoon kinda flew by. It was six before I knew it. Embarrassed myself when I said goodbye to him. Sort of a … handshake-slash-hug misunderstanding. Then he drove off. The end.”
“Got any plans with him tomorrow?”
“No. It’s the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, which I guess I have to attend. Just spending the day here at the house.”
“I’m not invited.” He leans in, smirking. “Family only.”
I shrug. “You probably won’t be missing much. Hopefully my dad will actually put me to work this time. Or something.” I sigh as I throw myself back into the task of bandaging his thumb, having been distracted by our conversation. “I am not looking forward to it—and especially not the wedding.”
“My offer still stands,” he quietly sings at me.
I look up at him. “My declination of your offer still stands, too.”
“Maybe I really will have to ask thirteen times. Didn’t think I’d need to, but shoot, you’re really puttin’ up a fight.”
“Can you stay still, please?” I tug on his arm, bringing it closer to me. It has the unintended effect of making Samuel lean forward and putting his face within breathing distance of mine. I clear my throat. “Y-You keep fidgeting. I’m trying to bandage you here.”
“You’re taking an awful long time for just a tiny nick on my thumb.”
“It’s more than a ‘tiny nick’, and you won’t stay still.”
“If you’d let me do it, I’d be finished by now.”
“If I let you do it, you wouldn’t have a bandage at all, and we’d still be in the garage looking for your imaginary favorite hammer while you bled to death all over Mr. Strong’s workbench. They’d find you in the morning passed out with your thumb in your mouth like a baby.”
He scoffs. “My hammer is not imaginary.”
I press the bandage over his cut, causing him to hiss out, then wrap it around his thumb and glare at him. “You want to know the reason why you’re still single?”
“Jeez, can you be a little gentler?”
“Because you’re not a rabbit. You’re not cute and cuddly. You are a dog—and not the sweet, obedient kind. You are disobedient. Unruly. Stubborn. You chew on hundred-dollar designer shoes as if they’re your toys. You knock over smelly trashcans for fun. You dig holes under fences. You gnaw on expensive furniture. You’re a nightmare to people like me.”
Samuel should probably take offense to that. Instead, he just rolls his eyes and leans in closer to me. “You can call me any dang animal you want. It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t apologize for who I am. Never have. Never will.”
“Dogs don’t apologize, either.”
“Why should animals apologize for anything? Animals don’t have an ‘apology system’ like we do. They just act, react, do, feel and think, sense and respond, observe, learn, teach, eat, sleep, and have sex so their offspring can do all of that, too.”