Accidental Knight: A Marriage Mistake Romance(39)

I make it as far as the kitchen before the sharp ache in my knee forces me to rest. “I’ll sit down at the table for a minute.”

He doesn’t go bugged-eye or anything, but now that we’re in the light, something about his face says I must really look like hell.

Awesome. Opposite Day Awesome.

Well, so be it. I can’t exactly make it to the bathroom right now to clean up.

Not wanting him to know, I look at him and say, “So, you can go ahead and call the sheriff. The sooner we get something on file, the better.”

Drake says nothing. With his help, I lower myself onto the chair and take a deep breath.

Lord, I need it. My hands are on fire. I turn them over. Beneath the blood and dirt, there’s more gravel embedded in my palms.

“Let me get a washcloth and—”

“No.” I could laugh off my injuries if it was an accident. But this was deliberate. “Call the sheriff, Drake. I can handle myself. Please.”

Shrugging, he grabs a phone off the center island. His, no doubt.

He punches a couple of buttons and a moment later, says, “Shelia, it’s Drake. Someone tried stealing Edison. Yeah, Jonah’s old horse.” He pauses. “No. Not seriously. Bella took a bad fall, but I’ve got her. Once I check out her injuries, I’ll look at the cameras. One of them might’ve gotten a license plate. It was a black Ford pickup with stock racks.”

He pauses again.

If I wasn’t in such pain, I’d try to hear what Shelia says. Odd that he’d know the direct number of the sheriff’s dispatcher. I’ll have to ask him about that.

Along with a gazillion other questions. Like why the hell we’re married.

Believe me, I haven’t forgotten it for a second.

But question time can wait until after I get cleaned up. I pat my upper lip, gently because it hurts. There’s no blood on my fingertip, so my nose must’ve stopped bleeding. If that’s where the blood came from earlier...it could be my lip.

I touch it and flinch. It’s swelling fast.

Turning back to Drake, a dark scowl covers his entire face.

“Yeah. I’ll email you pictures from the data tonight,” he tells her. Then, after another pause, he says, “Got it. I’ll tell her.”

He clicks off and sets the phone on the center island.

That’s when I notice everything else there.

Bowls. Cheese. Onions. A grater. Tortillas. Meat thawing in the sink. Then a pan of neatly packaged Mexican goodness that looks ready to bake.

“Seriously? You were making those enchiladas?” I can’t believe it after everything else.

“That was the deal,” Drake says, walking around the island.

“Whatever, I guess.” I cock my head, hating how my stomach growls. “Uh...beef or chicken?”

“Beef. Depending how hungry you are, there’s plenty of chicken, too.”

My stomach growls again. Traitor. It clearly doesn’t care that I hurt everywhere.

And I’m not sure if I should be eating anything this man fixes.

“I’ll put the first round in the oven after I see how bad you’re hurt.” He turns on the water and pulls a large plastic bowl out of the cupboard.

Figuring the bowl of water is for me, I say, “I’ll go to the bathroom and wash up.” It’s off the kitchen. A half bath in the laundry room.

“No, you’ll sit right there.” He pulls a washcloth out of a drawer.

I should get up, but I’m not sure I can. My knee is throbbing.

I twist enough to see it, even though I have jeans on. Bloody jeans.

No wonder it hurts.

“Look at me,” Drake growls.

I lift my head. He gently swipes a warm cloth across my cheek several times, examining the area carefully after each wipe. Then he does the same on the other side, dunking the washcloth in the bowl of warm water on the table and wringing it out between each feathery touch.

It’s kind of amazing how gentle he can be.

I bite my tongue. Not because of the pain. Because I start noticing his aftershave halfway through this strange cleanup.

He smells as good as he looks. Strong. Masculine. Wind and earth and something like a hint of decadently aged bourbon.

It’s predictable, maybe, but it’s nice.

When he wipes my lips with the cloth, I have to fight to keep from flinching. Again, not from the pain. My lips quiver and I pinch them together.

He wipes my chin, forehead, nose.

I can’t take much more, feeling like a bruised little kitten under his touch, slightly drunk on his divine smell and gorgeous, focused eyes. He’s making me light-headed and I have no business feeling this.

When the cloth touches my cheek, a sting reminds me of my injuries. I pull my head back. “Are you almost done?”

“Hands. Let me see your hands.”

I hold them out. Drake grabs my wrist, spreads my fingers gently.

One by one, he dips them in the water and rubs my palms.

Talk about stinging. But not so hard it makes my toes curl, too.

That’s not the fall. That’s Drake Larkin, and I’m starting to freak over why I’m feeling anything besides an urge to rip his head off and run.

I’m torn right down the middle.

One minute, I feel like I just got run over by a truck every time he looks at me.