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16

Sage

Irestedmychampagneon the nightstand and flopped backward onto the bed with all the dramatics of a morose teenager. “If I had to describe this day in three words, they’d beFuck my life.”

Brandon turned and hooked his brawny arm over the back of the chair. “Come on, now. You’re alive and sipping champagne in the most exclusive hotel in Philly—with me. How bad can it be?”

I hoped my dour expression conveyed how bad it absolutely was.

“All right, then. How about this? I’m almost done here. Why don’t you text your family and let them know your phone isn’t working so they don’t worry when they can’t contact you, and then I’ll let you stab me with a needle and thread for ten minutes. That ought to cheer you up.”

I shrugged and feigned indifference because the thought of causing Brandon pain, even though he could be a monumental jerk, brought me no joy. It made me sick to my stomach, and I didn’t want to contemplate why.

I rested my back against the headboard and punched out the messages to Dad and Kara. Dad was probably in the middle of an ocean and out of phone range, anyway. And Kara was most likely downward dogging her bikini-clad ass on a Bali beach. Neither would be concerned by my odd text.

A heaviness weighed on my chest. I missed them. Did they feel the same about me?

Eventually, Brandon spun to face me and downed his warm, flat champagne in one gulp. “Done for now.” He approached the bed and removed a first aid kit from his suitcase. After a quick glance at the makeshift apron tourniquet, he lifted his bloodstained gray T-shirt over his head.

Sweet baby Jesus.

Every muscle in Brandon’s ripped torso bunched with the movement. I coughed and almost spat out my champagne for the second time tonight. My gaze roamed over him, from the bloody apron around his bulging bicep to the low-slung cargoes accentuating his lean waist. I wasn’t sure why the sight of him shirtless came as a shock since my hands had explored those delicious bumps and ridges only recently. Nevertheless, his broad shoulders, chiseled pecs, and rock-hard abs left my speechless mouth agape.

Multiple scars on his tan skin suggested he’d found trouble long before meeting me. One at his collarbone looked suspiciously like a bullet wound. The imperfections didn’t detract from the overall package, but they were a reminder that I didn’t know Brandon at all. What had he lived through to get them? Better than most, I understood how scars told a story.

“Are you okay?” Brandon asked. “I hope you’re not squeamish with blood. I’m going to need your help with this.”

I remembered to blink and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he mistook my lack of composure as an aversion to gore. I needed to get a grip on myself.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts. “I can do it.”

“It could get messy. We should move to the bathroom.”

On jelly legs, I followed him into the luxurious white-marble room. Full-length mirrors spanned the entire width of two walls. Great. Now there were multiple shirtless Brandons to gawk at. I could hardly breathe.

At the sink, Brandon grimaced when he flushed the wound with saline. With the blood washed away, the injury wasn’t so gruesome. It was a neat graze where the bullet had nicked the outside of his bicep.

“Have you ever stitched someone up before?” he asked while washing his hands thoroughly with soap.

“Nope. But I can mend socks.”

“Close enough. It doesn’t need to be pretty. It just needs to be clean and keep the skin closed until it heals.”

I scrubbed my hands while Brandon threaded the curved needle. When he passed it to me, I paused. “Won’t you need something for the pain?”

“I’ve had worse. Just find some way to distract me. Shouldn’t be that hard.” He smirked. “Hang on. You’re too low to do this comfortably.” Brandon circled his uninjured arm around my waist and hoisted me onto the counter with ease. My free hand flew to his shoulder for balance. I instantly regretted it. His skin was warm and firm with muscle. Each breath I inhaled was filled with Brandon’s unique masculine scent and a hint of sandalwood from his cologne. His heated palm lingered at the flare of my hip. And it was stupid of me, so goddamn stupid, to glance up and meet his gaze, because he was already watching me. Intently. Being this close to him, penned in by his powerful frame, had me stunned into silence.

Brandon’s trademark devilish smile appeared. “There. That’s much better.”

The baritone of his rich, deep voice snapped me back to reality. I tore my hand from his skin. Brandon surprised me again when he positioned himself between my thighs, sideways, so I could work on his wound. My heart rate went into overdrive, and a flush crept up my neck. I willed myself to calm down because shaking hands weren’t ideal for this task.

I held up the needle and thread. “Any final words of wisdom?”

Brandon glanced at my throat, and one side of his mouth tilted up. “Red is a nice shade on you.”

I glared at him. “Shut up.”

I wasted no time piercing his skin with the needle. Brandon hissed as he sucked in a sharp breath. I figured making this quick was the least painful method for both of us. Being this close to a seminaked Brandon did strange tingly things to my insides.