Page 87 of Lessons in Timing

Lucas stood and disposed of the glass shards, then grabbed a bottle of antiseptic from the cabinet, along with a handful of gauze bandages.

He looked back at me and smiled, likely amused by the exasperation on my face. “Almost done, I promise. I just need to patch you up.” He swabbed and dabbed all around the heel of my foot, shushing me gently as I continued to pathetically keen.

To finish, he wrapped several bandages around the area and gingerly ran his fingers down the edges of the gauze to smooth it down. “All right, good as new. The cuts weren’t deep enough to need stitches, so you’ll be fine. You might want to take some anti-inflammatories and be careful not to lean too much weight on that foot for a few days,” he instructed and, standing back up, he cleaned the work area, and re-sanitized the tweezers.

I stared at his back wordlessly for a few moments, then managed to clear my throat. “This wasn’t ... urm ... well, you didn’t have to, errngh ... wasn’t necessary ...”

He glanced back at me, eyes narrowing over a small grin. “Pretty sure that wasextremelynecessary.”

I looked away, swallowing thickly. “Urghh ...thanks. For, um, er ... for kn-knowing what you were doing.”

“You’re welcome.” Lucas walked back over, kneeling to retrieve the discarded bloody towel. “I’m just glad I was here.”

The words hung heavily in the air. A thick silence fell, and I watched those stunningly green eyes widen.

I’m here. He’s here.

We’re both HERE. NOW.

Lucas swallowed and slowly brought his gaze up to meet mine. Everything had happened so fast that he’d clearly barely even registered who I was.

“Hi,” he said softly.

I shifted wretchedly on my porcelain perch. “Hullo.”

Lucas dropped his gaze, and despite myself, I started fiddling with my towel. The last vestige of my decency. Lucas’s eyes followed the movement.

Then he leapt to his feet and cleared his throat, cheeks going visibly pink even under the layer of dirt. “I should go— I mean, things to do ...”

I shut my eyes tight. “Yeah. I should, uh, find some clothes. Erm.”

I kept them closed even as I heard him mumble a goodbye and hurry out of the room, and then the front door slamming shut.

I remained frozen on the edge of the tub for what seemed like an hour.

That did not just happen.

That could not have just happened.

Lucas had not walked in on me injured and in, to put it delicately, a state of dishabille.

He had not tenderly seen to my wounds while I had scrambled to hide both pain and certain bits of my anatomy. I had not whimpered and fidgeted like a child, and he had not shushed me like a benevolent nanny.

I had not been naked, and he had most definitely not been handsome.

And smelling strongly ofhorse.

That would have been very strange, if that had happened.

Which it hadn’t.

Because if absolutely any of it had happened, there was absolutely no way for me to avoid ritual suicide at this point.

After an eternity or so, I got up off the side of the tub and arranged the towel properly around my hips. Then I gingerly tested my gauze-wrapped foot. The dressing Lucas had applied held and dulled the pain to a degree I had no reason to expect. I limped over to the sink to wash the blood and ink off my hands.

I happened to glance up at the mirror and immediately thoughts of ritual suicide returned. I was drenched in sweat, hair clumped and standing on end, face unshaven and still a glowing, incandescent red. These were not ingredients that added up tosexy.

I looked like a man who had, quite recently, had a mass of glass in his foot.