He removes his jacket and slings it over the counter. His white dress shirt is fitted tightly to his muscles, hugging and caressing them in ways I’ve been dreaming about for months. He unbuttons his top two buttons and I can’t stop staring at his neck, his fingers, his mouth. All of it.
“Gavin,” I breathe, prepared to beg him to open the door and let me out because I can’t do this.
“Let’s see it, Bluebird.”
He drops slowly to his knees, never once breaking eye contact. Other than a slight trembling in my hands and legs, I remain still—entranced and completely paralyzed by his proximity.
I swallow to make sure I can still function and then lift my dress one inch at a time until the gash on my hip is revealed to him.
“Jaggerd McKinley had sex with Cassidy before the wedding. You have any feelings about that?”
I shake my head even though it’s swimming from having him this close. “Um, yay for them?”
Gavin doesn’t even flinch at the sight of my black lace thong. Nor does he touch me in any way that even borders on inappropriate, which is almost brutally painful.
Smooth fingers graze the area just below my still-healing wound.
“It’s bruised pretty good and a little inflamed. I’ll check for a first aid kit with antiseptic wipes but you should probably get it checked out. Mind if I ask what happened?”
Come to me, words.
I fumble over my tongue for a second and take a deep breath.
“I ran into something in Jag’s—um, the McKinleys’ auto body shop. Sometimes I help out over there. Answering phones and stuff.”
Jesus. I sound like a nervous teenager. Which I no longer am.
Again, I can’t help but weigh the pros and cons of our band reuniting. If I had a Magic 8 Ball right now like the one I had as a kid, I already know what its answer would be if I asked it whether or not I could keep my shit together.
Outlook not so good.
I square my shoulders and watch Gavin search the cabinets until he produces a small white, plastic container.
He tears open a small square packet containing what looks like a wet wipe. “This will help a little. But, seriously, no telling what you ran into in that chop shop. Promise me you’ll go to the doctor.”
“Chop shop?”
Gavin doesn’t respond to my inquiry and I don’t press it because the wet wipe on my hip both tickles and stings, igniting a tingling sensation that extends far deeper into the flesh. When he’s done, he blows gently on my skin and my knees threaten to given out. I grip the marble counter behind me for support.
“You good?”
“Just fine,” I tell him through gritted teeth.
He rubs some cream on my wound and blows some more before standing and that’s it. I can’t take it anymore. His mouth is so close, he’s so close. He seems taller or something, and even though I know the likelihood of that is ridiculous, I don’t remember ever feeling so very aware of his presence. Or maybe I just blocked it all out. But here, now, in the room with him, everything is coming back.
All of it.
Every single second we spent connected on a physical level. His mouth on me, his lips, his tongue, his body inside of mine.
“You’re good at this,” I say, barely able to get my voice to go above a whisper.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
I don’t know if he means with first aid, which is likely since he’s had to perform CPR on his mom more times than I can count, or seduction, which I also happen to know he’s well versed in. Either way, I am in danger of losing my grip on my ability to remain upright.
It’s as if my brain has been doing me a favor for the past few months, allowing me to focus on being pissed at him instead of . . . this. But clearly my brain has left the building and I am completely on my own. This is dangerous.
I am weak.
I want him.
I need him.
Screw it.
“There,” he says gently, lowering my dress back down over my thighs. “That might help a little but you should still—”