She scrambled to sit up, wincing since she landed too hard on her butt. Don had used every bit of his strength to push her and a dull throb started in her shoulder where his hand had made contact.
“Morgan.” Evan knelt beside her, his dark blue eyes full of concern. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, shocked when the crowd swarmed around them as if nothing happened. A waitress came over with a white rag, picking up the mug that had fallen when Don went down and swiping at the floor to absorb the spilled beer.
Otherwise, it was as if nothing happened.
Evan drew her up to her feet, brushing his hands over her shoulders and arms. “Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder hurts a little from where
he pushed me.” A murderous glint lit his eyes. “And…my butt hurts. I landed hard on that floor.”
He smiled softly. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Evan tossed a couple of twenties on their table to cover everything and they left the bar, pushing through the door and walking out into the cool spring night air. Morgan shivered, her thin sweater not offering much protection and Evan slipped his arm around her shoulders, his hand resting lightly on the injured one. He pulled her close to him.
“You’re cold,” he offered when she glanced up at him. “Let’s go to my truck. I have a first aid kit in there. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
He was so protective. And attentive. A girl could get used to such behavior…
His truck was parked almost directly across from her car, and she stood by the passenger side while he opened the door and dug behind the seat. Pulling out a white metal box with a giant red cross on the front of it, he set it on the seat and popped it open. The box was filled with miscellaneous medical supplies and he turned to her, his hand going for the neck of her cardigan.
“Maybe you should take off your sweater.” His hand dropped away from her. “I want to make sure your shoulder isn’t scratched.”
Slowly she unbuttoned her cardigan, her entire body quivering. The heat of his gaze seared her, scorched her from the inside out and she pulled the sweater from her shoulders, revealing her bare skin. She wore a tank top because it was always so warm in the office but now she felt almost naked.
Exposed.
“You’re bruising already.” He didn’t hesitate to touch her, his fingers skimming her shoulder. She jumped at his gentle touch, his warm, rough-tipped fingers. “I can’t believe he pushed you.”
“I don’t think he knew what he was doing.”
“He hurt you. You don’t need to make excuses for him.” He pushed the sweater farther down her right arm, till it bunched to her wrist. “Your elbow is bleeding.”
“It is?” She jerked her arm away from him to check out the injury. It wasn’t bad, just a trickle of blood. “Why do you always see me at my worst?”
“This is how I see most people,” he said with a chuckle. “And trust me, if this is your worst, I think you might slay me dead with your best.”
Her entire body tingled at his compliment.
“Climb into the passenger seat, and I’ll bandage you up.” He didn’t wait for her answer. Merely rounded the truck and got into the driver’s seat. She had no choice but to sit next to him, pulling the door shut to keep out the cool breeze.
He did the same, and they were all alone. No sound but their soft breathing, the jangling sway of his key chain when he pushed the key into the ignition. The first aid kit rested on the console between them and he reached inside, pulling out bandages and antiseptic spray.
“Let me take care of you.” His quiet words held more meaning than they should and longing splintered through her.
She was being foolish. Believing there was more at play here than just a first date and a man ready to help her because it was his job.
Within minutes she was bandaged and she slipped the sweater back over her shoulders, hopeful he hadn’t noticed her hard nipples poking against the thin fabric of her tank. Having him so close, his breath brushing across her upper arm as he’d worked on her elbow had nearly been her undoing.
“Need anything else?” He placed his supplies back into the kit.
“I’m fine. But what about you?”
He appeared startled by her question, then glanced down at his right hand. “I guess I did scrape my knuckles when I punched him.”
“My hero,” she murmured as she reached for his hand. She cradled it between both of hers, studying the reddened, lightly scraped skin of his knuckles. His hand was large with long, blunt-tipped fingers and so very capable. She brushed her thumb across his knuckles, and he hissed in a breath. “Hand me the antiseptic spray, please.”