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Eighteen

“IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE Tate shot at us,” Riley said as she and Greyson disembarked the retreat shuttle.

“Are you okay?” Julie asked, rushing up to them. “You poor dears. I heard about Tate. I can hardly believe it.”

“It is hard to believe,” Grey said.

“We should get you to Peter,” Julie said, striding to the far building.

Riley tilted her head. “Who’s Peter?”

“He’s our paramedic and also our Pilates instructor.”

“Interesting combo,” Greyson said.

“Well,” Julie said, striding toward the far building. “We don’t have much cause for a paramedic here, but we wanted one on staff should one of our guests get sick or injured.” Her gaze raked over Greyson. “I never thought he’d be handling something like this. Anyway,” she continued, “he’s a fabulous Pilates instructor too. It’s a great combination for us.”

“Sounds like it.”

Reaching the double glass doors, Julie opened one and held it for them to pass through.

“Third door on your right,” she said, directing them down the hall past the yoga and Pilates room.

Greyson leaned in. “I can handle seeing to my injury myself.” He’d learned more than enough training in the military to butterfly a wound. They weren’t talking major medical.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Riley whispered back.

Of course, she’d fight him on it.

“I’ll do it,” she said in that determined voice of hers, hushed as it was.

“Everything all right?” Julie asked behind them.

“Fine,” Greyson said. “I was just explaining that I appreciate that you have a medic on staff, but I’m quite capable of seeing to my own injury.”

“Surely you’re joking,” she said, pausing on the threshold to the medic bay beside them.

“No, ma’am. I’m former military. I have the training.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Riley said. “We’ll be fine. We’ll just need a few supplies.”

“I really must insist,” Julie protested as a tall, lean-yet-muscular man with dark hair approached in a black Under Armour T-shirt and matching exercise pants.

“This must be Noah,” he said.

“How’d—” Riley began.

“Miss Julie radioed ahead,” he said. He stepped inside the room and gestured to the exam table with white paper drawn over it. “Please have a seat.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I have the necessary training, so we’ll be seeing to it ourselves,” Grey said.

“It’s really no trouble,” Peter said.

“I appreciate it, but if we could just have a few supplies, we’ll be set.”

“Okay.” Peter shook his head. “If you insist.”

“This is the oddest thing to happen here,” Julie said.

“I would have thought him being struck by an arrow would have taken that spot,” Riley said, and Greyson bit back his laughter.

“I...” Julie stuttered. “Well, of course. I simply meant—”

“There’s no need to explain,” Greyson said, then redirected his attention to Peter. “We’ll need rubbing alcohol, gauze, Steri-Strips, and some antibiotic cream, and we should be set.”

“Come here, Grey,” Riley said, after they returned to their room. Taking his hand, she led him into the bathroom. “I thought Julie was going to have a conniption.”

“You and me both.” Greyson smiled.

“I know you take care of the team when one of us gets an injury on the job, but I didn’t realize you had medic training in the military.”

Because that part of his life was tied to pain. “Yep.”

“Cool. Now take off your shirt.”

He swallowed. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “I can do it myself.”

“Don’t be silly.” She pulled out the first-aid items they’d collected from the medic’s office and laid them on the vanity. “You sure you’re okay with me tending to this? We can always go back to Peter.”

What should he say? She was more than capable, and he preferred to involve the retreat staff as a little as possible. “I can always do it myself.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can do this.”

He didn’t doubt she could. “All right,” he said. “Thank you.”

She nodded, and he grabbed the hem of his shirt and lifted, his injured arm smarting with pain. He winced despite trying not to.

“Let me help you,” she said, stepping closer. Close enough her ocean-scented fragrance swirled around him in the enclosed space.

She raised his shirt up, her fingers brushing his chest in the process.

He took a sharp intake of breath.

She froze. “Am I hurting you?”

Not in the least. “No, I’m good.”

“If you say so.” She shimmied his shirt fully off his right arm and bunched it by his neck. “Ready?” she said, empathy in her beautiful eyes.

He nodded.

“One, two, three.” She pulled it over his head.

He ground his teeth.

“Sorry,” she said.

He swallowed. “All good.”

She inched his left sleeve down his arm and set his shirt to the side.

Her eyes widened as her gaze locked on him, and pink flushed her cheeks.

He angled his head. Was she checking him out? Nah. His mind was playing tricks on him.

She cleared her throat, reaching for the rubbing alcohol. “Ready?” she asked again before swabbing his wound.

He leaned against the sink, gripping the edge of the vanity.

“I think it’s always better to put the alcohol on fast. It’ll sting, but think of it as ripping off a bandage. Or,” she paused, “do you want me to go slow?”

He wanted her to go slow just to have her close longer, but ... “Fast,” he said.

“Okay. Here we go.” She did a quick swipe across the wound. Once. Twice.

He clenched his teeth, but it was over before it began, then she leaned in and blew on his wound.

Emotions and warmth rushed through him. Fearing his expressions would give him away—his feelings for her, the joy at her closeness—he schooled his features.

She studied him, a question in her eyes. “You okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” He nodded.

“Okay. The worst part is over.” She reached for the antiseptic cream.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded, trying to keep his thoughts off her and the fact she was touching him, even in the most innocent of ways—her hands soft on his skin as her fingers grazed his shoulder.

She slid the cream on the wound, then grabbed the bandages. She was so close. Her breath whispering across his bare skin. Her honeysuckle shampoo infusing the air mingling with the salt-air scent of her perfume.

He ached to pull her into his arms, yearned to kiss her, but he had to do the right thing. Had to stand by his boundaries. He cared too much about her to subject her to his secrets. Besides, kissing him was the last thing she’d want to do. He had to keep reminding himself she viewed him as a brother and a friend. Nothing more.

“There,” she said, taking a step back.

The urge to pull her back seared through him, and he gripped the vanity harder. “Thanks,” he managed.

“No problem.” She dropped the first-aid items back in the bag Peter had provided and set it on the vanity. “We’ll change it again in the morning.”

He nodded. The thought warmed him. He cringed. He really was a mess.

“We can order room service for dinner and just stay in so you can rest.”

“I’m good.” He strode for the closet and grabbed a blue button-up shirt.

She followed him into the room. “You sure?”

“Definitely good.” In regard to dinner—yes. In regard to his heart—it was shattering into pieces knowing she could never be his.