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“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Nothing a band-aid won’t fix,” I reply.

“Where are they? The band-aids.”

“I have a box in the upstairs bathroom.” I gesture toward my living room. “Upstairs on the right. They’re in the medicine cabinet.”

“Got it.”

“Carter, you idiot,” I mutter. It doesn’t take long before I hear Brooklyn enter the room behind me. “Could you grab me the towel that’s hanging by the stove?”

Brooklyn grabs the towel and places it over my finger as soon as I turn off the faucet. “Carter, that’s pretty deep.”

“It’s fine. Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

“Do you think you need stitches?”

Probably. “No. Honestly, I’m no stranger to kitchen casualties.”

“Do I want to ask?”

I shrug as she wraps a bandage tightly around my finger. “I dropped a knife on my foot once. Bled everywhere. I ended up needing six stitches.”

“You were cooking barefoot?”

“You could say that.”

A curious tilt of Brooklyn’s head tells me she expects more details.

“Let’s just say I have never baked in the buff again.”

A moment of silence is suddenly filled by boisterous laughter. I should be embarrassed, but I find myself laughing with her.

“Priceless. What were you baking?” she asks.

“A cake for my ex’s birthday. The worst part? I grabbed the knife to cut open a stubborn box of baking chocolate. I hadn’t even started to bake. No cake.”

“Oh no.”

“Yep. I also left her a wonderful present by bleeding on the white rug she had in her dining room. Not the best birthday gift. She loved that rug.” She did. Probably more than she loved me.

“Who would put a white rug in a dining room?” Brooklyn asks.

“Right!”

“Seriously, Carter, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fortunately, I don’t need my finger for anything important today.”

“Today?” Brooklyn asks playfully.

I blush. “Are you secretly related to Ali?”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.”

“I promise, I’m fine. And I promise not to bleed into our dinner.”

“You don’t need to go to any trouble,” Brooklyn says. “You can order Dominos for all I care.”