Friction(46)

“And here I was thinking you were returning it after—” But whatever he’s about to say is lost when the workshop door flies open and Jace stalks into the reception area, his bronze features twisted in an angry scowl. He paces for a moment, gripping his hand to his chest, and releasing a steady stream of curse words. It’s not until he stops moving that I see what he’s so pissed off about.

He’s clutching a bloody towel in his hand, and there’s also blood splattered down the front of his gray tee shirt and jeans.

“Holy shit,” I gasp. I hate blood. I’d considered going into medicine but reevaluated that decision when I realized that watching OR scenes on Grey’s Anatomy turned me into a queasy mess. Still, I can’t stop myself from rushing to him and drawing his hand into mine. I unwrap the towel, and my stomach and chest furl together at the sight of the gash running along his palm. “What happened?”

“I got into a nasty row with a piece of metal,” he says dryly. “The bastard won.”

Fighting the nausea building in the back of my throat, I wipe around the wound in a pathetic attempt to see how much damage he’s done. “We need to get you to a hospital. Just in case you need stitches.” He chuckles, and I snap my gaze up to his blue eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“Exley doesn’t do hospitals. Although, for you … he just might.” Ash says, and I cast a dark look over my shoulder at him. He winks then ducks into the workshop. Leaving me alone with our bloody boss.

Dammit.

“You really should get this looked at.” I wrap the towel around his palm again and take a step away from him because his presence is still an intoxicating distraction—even when he’s bleeding all over the place. “It won’t be funny if it gets infected.”

“It’s just a cut, Lucy. It hurts, but it’s nothing peroxide and a bandage won’t fix,” he says as I grab my bags and start toward the workshop. “And since Daisy’s got the key to the supply closet with those items and she’s not here, you’re taking me to get what I need.”

Once again, I freeze with my hand on the doorknob. “Wait, what?”

“It’ll only take fifteen minutes, love.” My heart slams into my ribcage because the last time he said that—the last time he asked for my help—he’d ruined me for any other man’s touch and kiss. When I don’t budge, he makes an exasperated sound from behind me. I hear the front door open, and a second later, a bitter chill kisses the back of my neck.

I decide to blame the goose bumps covering my skin on that. The cold.

“Let’s go, Williams,” he drawls. “Before I bleed out and you have to do that lovely interview for me.”



I expect to drive him to a drugstore, but he surprises me when his turn by turn directions lead us to a brick row house a few blocks from work. “Are you coming in or are you planning to stay out here listening to”—he rubs his good hand over his dark beard and waggles a thick brow—“Craig David?”

He had spent the last few minutes giving me hell about my playlist, and I cast him a dark look. “I like this song.”

“Yes, and you like Joe Mayer, too. I’m very aware of your musical tastes.”

“For starters, it’s John Mayer, but you already know that. And Craig David is from England. Don’t you want to support your fellow countryman, Exley?”

“One Direction’s from England too, love, and they’re also a hard pass.” He lifts his injured hand, waving it around until the sight of the bloody towel clenches my belly. “Get out of the Jeep. The faster we take care of this, the faster we can get back to work and you can stop looking at me like you’re going to be sick.”

I turn off the ignition but stay firmly rooted in my seat. “Who’s house is this?”

“It’s mine. Now get out.”

As he lets us into the row house, I mention that I thought he lived in Framingham—where we ran into him at breakfast—but he shakes his head. “Theo and Daisy live in Framingham. I live here.”

I walk backward into the foyer. It’s painted a subtle shade of blue—like his eyes—and the scent that seemed to linger on my skin from his shirt envelopes me.

Damn, I should have waited in the car.

“It’s very close to the workshop,” I murmur.

He kicks the front door closed behind him then decides to steal my breath away by dragging his gray tee shirt over his head. When he shrugs and tosses it in the corner, I bit the insides of my cheeks at the way his muscles flex. “I like being close. Come with me because I might need your help.”

Numbly, I follow behind him, trying to stare at the back of his head instead of the tattoos covering the thick muscles of his back. I fail at that. I fail so damn hard that I nearly run into him when he abruptly stops in the kitchen. His good hand closes around my upper arm, steadying me, and I swallow the gasp. “You’re not going to faint on me, love?”

“No,” I whisper, the air releasing from my lungs when he lets go of me to rummage around in the cupboard above the fridge. “But I do hate blood.”

“Could have fooled me.” He approaches me as I slide onto a bar stool behind the counter. Placing a large first aid kit between us, he focuses his attention on gathering the supplies to bandage his hand. “You nearly tackled me in the office to make sure I was all right.”