Page 66 of Not Looking
I shook my head. “I’m ok. It’s just a cut.”
“It looks deep.” Craig’s breathing was shallow, his protective scent almost overwhelming.
“I just need to wrap it.”
“I should get you to a doctor,” he repeated. “They need…”
“Look at me,” I commanded.
He looked up. His eyes were wide and his face pale. But there was something in his gaze.
And his scent.
He wasn’t reacting like this because of an injury. He was reacting to the fact thatI’dbeen the one injured.
Something ached in my chest—a longing for that level of caring.
I swallowed and attempted to shove the feeling down, even as the cut started to sting. “It looks worse than it is. I just need to wash and wrap it.”
“I’ll grab one of the water bottles from your pack,” he said, not quite as frantic as he had been. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
I chuckled. “I have a washroom with an industrial sink. My first aid kit is in there.”
Some color started to come back into his face as he nodded. “Ok.”
“Let me get this stuff off,” I said, as I started to reach for my face shield.
“Let me,” he murmured, and the sincerity in his voice exposed more of that ache in my chest. “Try to keep your arm still.”
“Ok,” I breathed.
He removed my face shield and set it aside, then removed my apron. But what should have been routine actions were filled with tenderness. His calloused hands were gentle against my skin.
The adrenaline was fading, and his attention was almost too much.
“Where’s your washroom?” he asked, once again taking my injured arm in his hands—holding it like it was a priceless vase.
“Middle door,” I replied, unable to tear my gaze from where his thumb traced back and forth over a patch of uninjured skin.
He shifted, and I allowed him to guide me to the washroom. I blinked as he flicked on the light and stopped beside the sink.
I hissed as water hit the raw skin.
“Sorry,” Craig murmured as he splashed more water on it.
“It’s ok,” I replied. “It needs to be washed well.”
He continued rinsing it until the blood had been washed off, and we could verify that there was no wood in the wound. Then he tore off a couple of paper towels and pressed them to my arm.
“Hold that while I get your first aid kit?” he asked.
I nodded and kept firm pressure on the paper towels. “It’s on that shelf right there.”
He pulled down the box and opened it. “Antibiotic ointment?” he asked.
“Might as well.”
He pulled it out, along with a couple of gauze pads and the vet wrap. Then he washed his hands.
