“Sorry. I, ah, wasn’t sure if . . . I’m finished for the day,” she told him.
He glanced up, held her eyes for a beat. Grunted and looked back down at his work.
His hands had to hurt, she thought. She could practically see them throbbing. “You really should ice down those knuckles.”
“They’ll be all right. I’ve had worse.”
“Probably, but if they’re swollen and stiff—or worse, get infected—you won’t
be much good around here.”
“Don’t need a nurse, thanks.”
Stubborn, she thought. But so was she. She went back in, got the first-aid kit, a couple of ice packs. Marched back to his office.
“Some would say you’re being stoic and manly,” she began as she dragged over a chair. “But my take is sulky baby because your hands hurt.”
“I enjoyed the getting of them, so I’m not sulky. Put that away.”
“When I’m done with it.” She got out the antiseptic, gripped his wrist. “This is going to sting.”
“Don’t be— Shit! Bloody fucking hell.”
“Baby,” she said with some satisfaction, but blew on the sting. “If you’re going to punch somebody in the face with bare knuckles, you’re going to pay the price.”
“If you disapprove of fighting, you’re in the wrong place. Likely the wrong country.”
“I don’t—that is situationally, and that jerk deserved it. Just let this lie while I clean this one up.” She set the ice pack on one hand while she doctored the other. “You knew what you were doing. Did you box in college?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Resigned—and in any case the ice pack felt just grand—he sat back a little. “Are you trying to set my hand on fire to purify it?”
“It’ll only sting for a minute. What manner of speaking?”
The look he gave her could only be described as a glower. She’d always wondered what a glower actually looked like.
“You’re full of questions.”
“It’s only one,” she pointed out. “And talking will distract you. What manner of speaking?”
“Jesus. I worked my way through university fighting. Bare-knuckle matches, so this current situation isn’t new to me. I know how to tend to myself.”
“Then you should have done it. That’s a hard way to earn tuition.”
“Not if you like it, and not if you win.”
“And you did both.”
“I liked it better when I won, and I won my share.”
“Good for you. Is that how you got that scar through your eyebrow?”
“That’s another question. A different kind of fight—pub fight, and a broken bottle. As I’d been drinking myself, my reflexes were a bit slow.”
“You’re lucky you have the eye.”
Surprised by her response, and the matter-of-fact tone, he cocked that scarred brow. “Not that slow.”
She only smiled. “Switch hands.”