Page 59 of Yours, For Now

"Honestly."

We found my car and I opened the back door; the first aid kit was in the underseat compartment. I gave the plastic box to my fake girlfriend, who'd been acting a lot like a real one.

"Okay. Sit there." She pushed down from my shoulder. I sat at the edge of the seat cushion, bringing my head to her shoulder level. Lina had me hold the first aid kit in my hands while she perused the contents. "Okay, gauze, good. Disinfectant towelettes… oh, wow, you have everything here. I'm impressed. Even a mouth to mouth device!"

I chuckled. "I don't think I'm going to need one of those."

No, if she wanted to put her mouth on mine, I wouldn't want it to be because of CPR.

"Har har." She put on the gloves, and my stomach dropped. I was disappointed she wouldn't be touching me skin to skin. It made sense, of course, but… disappointment was there, anyway, blooming in my stomach. "Let's do this, then."

She opened a disinfectant packet and unfolded the towelette. She dabbed at my eyebrow, slowly cleaning the wound and skin surrounding it. She focused on the task, her concentration visible in the slant of her eyebrows. Tension pursed her lips, and it brought a few images to mind I wasn't aware I had kept: when we worked together at home and she concentrated, the same gesture would shape her face.

"You doing okay?" She didn't look at me as she worked, but took a step closer between my legs. "I don't have great light here."

"Yeah, I'm good."

A little too good. The only thing that would make it better would be if I could throw the first aid kit away, put my hands on her hips, and pull her even closer. The desire to do just that built in my lower belly, collecting enough potential energy for a shockwave. Its power would hit my organs and liquefy them in the blink of an eye.

Mere minutes earlier I had been telling myself flirting wouldn't hurt, and it seemed to have brought my attraction to Lina to the forefront of my chest. She put the towelette in the red biohazard bag and opened another, continuing to clean my wound… and all I could think about was how much I wanted to make this real and thank Lina with a kiss. Maybe more.

I closed my eyes. It was a futile dream. This fake relationship worked only because it had an end. Because I didn't have to try too hard.

If I were courting my fake girlfriend, I'd work harder at it— I'd invite her out to real dates, and I would cook for her, and I would take every weekend off so that I could spend time with her. Half of my weeknights. When she came to my games, I'd greet her with a kiss. When I won a tournament, I'd kiss her like we were in the middle of a stadium and everyone was cheering for us.

I wasn't doing any of those things. Two-thirds of the time we spent together, we worked on our own stuff. How could she ever know I cared, if I didn't show her? And I couldn't, not without sacrificing the chance to become the Sotomayor Group CEO.

Not to say anything about how disinterested she seemed, when we were alone. I'd have to romance her, provide evidence of how good we could be together, if we made our relationship a reality. She was guarded for good reason, strong-willed, and though I liked that about her, it meant I'd have to take my time. Be patient. And yes, I'd be willing to wait. What I lacked was time.

First, make my parents proud. Show them I valued everything they've ever done. Then romance.

So no, I couldn't court Lina. She would never know I felt this way. Unless the universe conspired in my favor, and she was single in two or three years.

Her gloved hand continued to work, while the other held my jaw at the right angle.

"You have amazing eyebrows," Lina said.

I chuckled. Such a casual comment, when my heart had been tearing up in my chest.

"Thanks. I don't need stitches, do I?"

"I don't think so." She put the dirty towelette in the red bag, grabbed two small butterfly closures, and put them on my eyebrow. "But I'm not an expert."

She grinned with an arched eyebrow, and I smiled back.

She took the first aid kit from my hands and dropped to her knees with no warning. She left the plastic container on the floor, and used both hands to lift my shorts, one leg at a time.

"Did you hurt your knees, too?" she asked. "You fell pretty badly on them."

The answer died in my throat. I knew she was checking for injuries, of course I knew it, but my dick didn't care. Her head— and her mouth— were too close to it, and this position gave me enough material to imagine what it would be like, if she was on her knees in front of me for altogether different reasons.

"Uhm…" I gulped. "No. I think— I should be fine."

"Mhh." She opened another disinfectant packet. "Looks fine, just bruised and scratched, but I'll clean them just in case."

Her business-like demeanor was the only thing that saved me from tenting my shorts right where she could see.

I breathed in and out, thought about the Napoleonic Wars, and commanded my body to relax. This was not supposed to be an erotic situation; what had possessed my body? Lina was helping me clean up a wound, and I'd been pining, and all of a sudden, blood had vacated my brain and chest. It wasn't right.