Page 114 of Tutored in Love
His chuckle takes some of the pain away, and I smile through my grimace.
When he’s done wallpapering my legs, he helps me sit up. “Take it slow,” he says. “Do you feel faint?” He takes my face in his hands, his hazel eyes searching mine as he leans to bring my face in and out of his shadow.
If I do feel faint, I’m fairly sure it’s not from the fall. “Concussion?” I ask.
He startles, releasing me. “Hard to tell, but your pupils are both responsive and the same size, as far as I can see. Does your head hurt?”
I swivel it side to side, shake it a little. “Seems okay.”
He nods, his lips pulling up, though he still looks worried.
“What are you, an EMT?” I ask.
He huffs, getting out a few more Band-Aids for my arms. “I was a lifeguard in high school.”
“You’re good at this.”
His hands still for a moment before he replies. “My mom wanted me to be a doctor.”
“But you didn’t?”
He shakes his head, gently applying the last Band-Aid. I disregard the warmth that blooms where his skin touches mine, focusing on the rocks. “I’m better with numbers than people.” He puts the lid back on the ointment and closes the Ziplock from his first-aid kit. He gathers up all the wrappers, then does another assessment, asking about my pain, scrutinizing my face, checking my eyes.
What if he didn’t hate me? I remind myself that I have no right to enjoy this platonic, charitable attention, that Jamie is after him and he’s encouraging her, and that I have a boyfriend and Noah wouldn’t date me if I were the last woman on Earth anyway. Would he?
Needing an escape from my thoughts, I start to get up, but he won’t let me until I’ve had a bite of some nasty bar he forces on me and a few sips of a sports drink from his pack.
Finally, he deems me ready. He reaches down to help me stand, keeping hold of my forearms to stabilize me. My heart is pounding, though I’m sure it’s not from my injuries. Our eyes meet and hold, and the what-ifs run through my head again. What if I hadn’t made some flimsy excuse to push him away the first time?
“I’m taller than you.” The words are out before I can stop them.
His gaze flits back and forth between my eyes. “No, you aren’t.”
I smell cinnamon.
“I’m looking right at you,” he says. “Our eyes are level.”
“The ground isn’t.” An urgency has crept into my voice. He can’t be taller than me. He isn’t!
His eyes narrow, stray downward for an instant, and snap back up. Almost imperceptibly he closes the space between us and touches my nose with his, his breath on my lips for an instant that feels much longer than it is. I close my eyes and tell myself I don’t like him that way, don’t want him to brush his lips against mine, because he can’t stand me and I was stupid and he was mean and there’s all that history.
Too soon, he retreats, just far enough that I can feel him staring. Daring.
The intensity when I open my eyes nearly has me back on the rocks. Energy snaps around him like electricity on a Faraday cage. His grip tightens as I sway.
“We’re even,” he says.
Is he still talking about height? I hold my breath, unable to read his expression. What does he mean, “even”?
He releases one of my arms, and I lean into the remaining support as his free hand lifts to my face. His thumb sweeps the skin right below my cheekbone, sending a delightful shiver down my neck and arm.
Does he feel this too?
Does it scare him like it’s scaring me?
Is it worth the risk?
I exhale and his hand freezes. He steps back, releasing me, his features pinching into a frown.