Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(28)

“Do you have any straws?”

“Second drawer from the sink. Right side,” she says softly.

I find a package of bendy straws in there and pull one free, dropping it into the mug. I turn around and find Clover staring at her scraped, bleeding palms. I grab a couple of paper towels, wetting them with cold water in the sink and squeezing so they’re not dripping before I bring them and the juice over to her.

Her hands are still shaking, so I don’t try to pass her the mug. Instead, I bend the straw and bring it to her lips. Her gray gaze lifts. And for the first time, I realize she’s not wearing her glasses.

It reminds me of the first time I met her. Her eyes are slate gray, ringed in deep blue. Her hair falls around her shoulders in thick, dark waves, so long it nearly reaches her waist. I remember what it felt like to have my hands in it.

Stop thinking about that, asshole.

“I can hold the mug on my own.” There’s bite in her tone.

“If you want.” I turn it so the handle is facing her, and she takes it gingerly. But I put a single finger under the bottom when her shaky grip causes the lemonade to slosh to the rim and nearly over the edge. She stabilizes the mug with her other hand before she takes a long sip. And then another and another until she finishes the entire cup.

She sets it on the table, and I pass her the damp paper towels. “You can put this on your palms, and I’ll be right back with the first aid kit, if that’s okay with you.”

“I can get it.” She holds the sides of her robe together with her fingertips, making a move to get up.

I stand and take a step back, giving her space. “I know you can, but I’m here to help, if you’ll let me.”

She drops back into the chair and closes her eyes, swallowing a couple of times. “I’m not weak.”

“I know you’re not. I can grab that first aid kit?”

She nods once. “Down the hall, second door on your right. In the second drawer of the vanity.”

I walk down the hall, taking in the art hanging as I pass—stark, black-and-white photos of derelict houses, beautiful despite their dilapidated state. I pause for a moment, staring at a hauntingly gorgeous photo of a woman in an elaborate dress, kneeling amidst the chaos and debris. A shiver runs down my spine, and I remember I have a purpose and continue down the hall.

I pass the first door without glancing inside and keep going until I reach the next one. I flick on the light and step in. The room itself is white, but the shower curtain boasts a cityscape in cartoon figures and bright colors, making the room feel sunny and personal.

I’m hit with a more potent version of Clover’s perfume, or body wash, or whatever she uses or wears to make her smell the way she does—like cloves and cinnamon and lemon and something that reminds me of comfort and holidays. The space is neat and tidy, towels folded and hanging on the bar, and the vanity free of clutter, apart from an electric toothbrush and one of those foaming hand soap pumps.

I glance in the mirror, my reflection staring back at me. Help her, set her at ease, keep the flirting to a minimum, then get out. I look past myself and realize I can see directly into her bedroom. It’s different from the one at her cabin and nothing like college-kid bedrooms, with posters and laptops and clothes strewn over the floor. Everything is color-coordinated, sophisticated, and organized. I drop my gaze, aware I’m in her personal space and seeing parts of her life she hasn’t invited me into.

But I can be helpful. I can smooth over some of the hard edges I’ve created with the whole sauna incident, with the awkwardness of this semester.

I open the second drawer down on the vanity and find several rolled washcloths in a variety of colors. On the right side is a small first aid kit. I turn on the tap, letting the cold water run, and wet a dark washcloth, wringing it out before I carry it and the kit back to the kitchen.

Clover is sitting exactly where I left her, dabbing at her palms with the now-pink-tinged paper towels.

“I brought a washcloth. They were in the same drawer as the first aid kit,” I explain as I set them on the table and pull out another chair. “I made sure to pick one that wouldn’t show the stains.”

“That was very thoughtful.”

I shrug. “When you play hockey, you get used to dealing with blood.”

“Hockey is an aggressive sport,” she murmurs.

“It can be, if you’re playing with emotions and not your skill set.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s a lot of testosterone and competitive personalities, especially when we’re all trying to impress the coaches and scouts, which breeds aggression.” I position myself at an angle, so I can reach her hands, but I’m not invading her space as much as when I was crouched in front of her. I flip the lid, remove a couple of iodine pads, and tear one open.

“Have you had many injuries?” she asks, her gaze going to my right eyebrow.

When we were together in the summer, we talked, but mostly it was light stuff. Easy conversation. We avoided personal details and focused on orgasms and the intense chemistry we seemed to share.

“Enough. I’ve gotten slashed with a stick and fractured my wrist once, and I got a puck to the head and needed stitches.” I tap the eyebrow she’s looking at. “We were playing street hockey, and I’d taken my helmet off for a minute. My best friend hit a slap shot. It ricocheted, and the result was this and a mild concussion.”