Page 17 of Weathering The Storm

“Yes, sir.”

“Rittenburg.” He crooks two fingers. “Up here.”

Logically, I know why he’s so stern about it. The infection risk is elevated out here, and it’s a pain in the ass to get to the hospital for anything requiring urgent medical attention. Also a pain in the ass to be down a crew member at the beginning of crab season, if it came to that.

But his tone still makes it sound like he’s seriously mad atme, and that does something to me.

I’d consider myself tough—out here, you have to be—but Ihatethe thought of disappointing Nick.

“It’s really nothing,” I say as I climb the ladder. “Did more damage to my glove than my skin.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just holds the door open and closes it behind us. I sit back on the cushioned bench, cringing at the trail of blood that followed me into the bridge while he digs around for the first aid kit under the navigation station. On the bright side, the pain provides a distraction from the view of his ass as he crouches low to the ground.

A slight distraction.

He sits beside me, urgency transformed into a more serene type of intensity as he holds his hand out. Waiting for mine to nest within it.

I wince, sucking a breath through my teeth as he removes my glove and both of us get our first look at the raw lacerationbeneath. Pain makes up only one half of my reaction, though. The other half comes from the way his warm, callused palm enfolds my cold, aching hand.

“It’s not nothing.” His brow creases as he examines the wound. “What wouldyoudo if one of the other guys had a cut like this?”

I wouldn’t wish they’d keep bleeding so I’d have an excuse to hold their hand, that’s for sure.

“Get the first aid kit…”

I told you so,he says, but he says it with his eyebrows. Out loud, he says, “Flex your fingers.”

I curl them one by one to show him I can still move my hand. Although, between the broken skin and the surrounding rope burn, it’s starting to throb.

He watches. Intently. Almost as intently as I’m watching him. “Not too deep, at least.”

Any sense of relief dulls as soon as he rolls up the sleeves of my overshirt and undershirt, and the backs of his knuckles rake across my forearm.

He grabs the bottle of saline out of the first aid kit and meets my eyes, lifting my hand to irrigate the wound. “Feel okay?”

That, I know I wouldn’t have done with the other guys. It’d go something more like,“Stop being a bitch, Perry.”But I can’t picture Nick saying that to anyone. Maybe this is how tender he’s been with everyone who’s gotten injured on the job.

I hate the thought of that.

As soon as the wound is flushed, he rips open a packet of sterile gauze and presses it, hard, against my palm. My hand cupped between both of his while he applies pressure.

“Have to stop the bleeding,” he says faintly. Likehe’sthe one hurt.

I meet his eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought I was handling it right, trying to save the pot. Is there something I should’ve done differently?”

“It’s not that. It’s…” He looks down. Shakes his head. “I thought the cut was worse than it is. Forgot you were such a bleeder.”

“Hey, it’s not all me with the crabs. You know how pokey those bastards are.”

“And your blood’s made of vodka, apparently.”

“Only during the off-season.”

There it is. His nose crinkles in that trying-not-to-smile smile of his. I’d slice my other hand open and come back to tell another joke if it would keep that look on his face.

“I’m still gonna order you to take it easy the next week,” he says.

“Nobody likes an armchair-manager on deck.”