“Morning,” he said finally finding his voice.
She watched him move to the nightstand and pick up his cell phone, glancing at it. She stood and made to move toward the bathroom, but he caught her hand. She turned back to find him shoving his phone in his pocket, his eyes on her.
“How’s your hip?” he asked, lifting his chin toward it.
“It’s fine,” she replied, her eyes cast down, embarrassed that she’d gotten drunk last night. Mortified that not only had s
he come on to him, but that he’d rejected her attempt.
“Let me see.”
“It’s fine.”
His brows rose, and his voice deepened. “Let me see."
She exhaled a breath and gave in, knowing he’d insist anyway. Turning, she pulled the tail of the shirt up, exposing the scrape.
“Satisfied?” she bit out in a sharp voice.
Ignoring her snarky attitude, he dipped his head and examined the wound. She also dipped to look, bringing their heads close together. When she did, his eyes lifted and connected with hers. And for a long moment neither said anything, they just stared at each other.
Finally Ghost broke the spell, straightening.
“Were you wanting to take a shower?”
“I’d planned on it, yes. If that’s okay with you?” she ground out. God, why were these antagonistic words just jumping out of her mouth? Because she was hung-over and more likely because she was embarrassed and humiliated over what had happened between them last night. Or correction, what hadn’t happened. She watched his jaw tick as he appeared to hold back a retort.
“That’s fine with me, brat. I was just going to suggest we coat it in ointment again first to protect it from the water. That okay with you?”
“Fine,” she snapped.
“Fine,” he snapped back, lifting his chin toward the bed. “Sit down.”
She flounced down on the bed like a recalcitrant child, crossing her arms and sticking out her chin. She was fully aware she was being a bitch, but something in her couldn’t help it. She could cut the tension smoldering between them with a knife, and she knew it was sexual tension. And damn him for not admitting it.
He moved to the dresser to get another packet of ointment out of the first-aid kit. Then he walked back over and squatted down in front of her, tearing it open. Squeezing some out, he smeared it over her skin, covering the wound completely.
His touch was gentle, even though she knew he had to be a little irked with her right now. And with the tender way he ministered to her wound, another little piece of her heart became his. It took her right back to when she was a child and he would wipe her tears and tell her she was okay.
Damn him. Why did she have to be so attracted to him and yet he seemed to be able to put her aside, to walk away from any desire he might feel for her? Was it just that easy for him?
“That should help.” His eyes trailed up her body to her face before he slowly rose.
She nodded. “Thanks.” Then she moved to the bathroom, closing the door and leaning back against it, closing her eyes. Oh God. Could he see what he did to her written on her face? Could he tell how her pulse quickened whenever he looked at her like that? How her breathing accelerated?
Was it obvious how she felt about him? Mortification washed over her knowing he didn’t return the feeling. Yes, he’d kissed her last night, touched her, but then he’d stopped, pushed her away actually. So he couldn’t possibly feel what she felt. How pathetic could she be? She’d practically thrown herself at him last night.
Pushing away from the door, she turned the shower on. She couldn’t think about that now, not with her head pounding like it was. She crossed to the door, opened it a crack to call out to Ghost, “Hey, are there anymore painkillers in that kit?”
A moment later, he was passing a packet to her along with the cup she’d used last night.
“Thanks.”
“No problem, brat. Headache?”
“Yes, a doozy.”
He nodded, as if that explained her foul mood. “I’m gonna run out for a couple minutes while you’re in the shower. When I get back, we’ll grab some breakfast, okay?”