Abby looked at her and her face flushed. “Oh—Georgia, I’m so sorry!”
“What happened?” the Georgia woman asked.
“She clearly dropped the drinks,” the man in the suit said. “It was an accident.”
“Did anyone get hurt?” asked Georgia, taking a look at our surroundings.
“No. No one got hurt,” the man said.
“Okay, well, that’s good. Abby, have someone come clean this up, please. And you,” Georgia said, looking down at me, “you’re bleeding. There is a first aid kit in the guesthouse. Please go take care of that before Lola catches sight of it.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Samira Wilder.”
“Well, Samira, unfortunately I’ll have to dock this from your pay.” Georgia winced. “Just standard protocol. It’s what you sign up for, in case there are any damages like this.”
“I understand.” But it didn’t make my feelings hurt any less. I was embarrassed on top of stressed, nervous, and all the other things I couldn’t help feeling.
I glanced at the man in the suit and he was focused on my chest.
The fuck? I frowned and lifted a hand to cover my chest. “What are you staring at?”
“It’s—uh.” He pointed at my chest. “It’s just the blood. It’s getting on your shirt.”
“Oh. Oh! Shit!”
He reached for the pocket of his suit and pulled out a silky black handkerchief. “Here, wrap this around it. I’ll walk you to the guesthouse.”
He turned with me before I could protest. I wasn’t really going to put up a fight anyway. Despite the fact that I had completely made a fool of myself and was bleeding, I’d caught this gorgeous man’s eye. Not for the better, of course, but still. It was something and he was being helpful.
He walked several steps ahead of me and opened the door to the guesthouse. No one was inside, thank goodness, but the bathroom door was ajar, as if people had been coming in and out of the guesthouse all night. Abby had instructed that the waiters use this bathroom if needed and not the bathrooms inside the mansion.
The man headed for the bathroom and started opening the cabinets. I stood in the middle of the guesthouse, peering out of the window, clutching my injured hand with his handkerchief. I could see Lola Maxwell standing in front of her guests, cradling a glass of champagne as a man in a suit spoke into a microphone. He must’ve been her husband.
“Found it.”
I glanced back at the man who stood in the bathroom with the first aid kit.
“I doubt the Maxwells would like seeing blood all over their furniture, so you might want to tend to that cut in here.”
“Right.” I made my way there, but as I stepped into the bathroom, I noticed he took up a lot of space. It was a spacious bathroom for sure, but he was a large man. Broad shouldered, tall. He definitely filled the room with his presence.
“I’ll just . . .” His voice trailed and then he left the bathroom.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the small white first aid kit on the counter. I took the handkerchief off but the cut bled again and blood dripped on the floor.
“No—damn it.”
“Everything okay?” the man called.
“Actually, no. It’s bleeding pretty bad. I think I might need stitches.”
“Stitches?” The man appeared again. “Can I take a look at it?”
“Sure.” I removed the handkerchief and he examined my finger.
“Doesn’t need stitches.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen my fair share of deep cuts,” he said, chuckling. “Trust me, that will be fine. Just needs some pressure to stop the bleeding.” His eyes locked on mine. “May I?”
I shrugged. I didn’t care as long as it stopped. I couldn’t afford a hospital visit right now on top of being jobless.
The man opened the first aid kit, took out a cotton ball, and wrapped it around my finger. He gripped my finger hard, applying pressure and I saw some of the blood ooze through. He grabbed another cotton ball.
“It’s one of those days, huh?” he asked, and I was glad he was filling the silence. I didn’t know him, and this situation was beyond awkward—a stranger stopping my bleeding.
“Definitely one of those days.”
“A rough one?”
“Kind of.”
He pressed his lips and nodded. “Rough for me too.”
“How so?”
He looked away, focusing on my finger again. “Long story. Better that I don’t get into it.”
Silence filled the space again. I clicked my tongue before saying, “I didn’t get your name.”
“You mean you don’t recognize me?” he asked, amused.
“No. Should I?”
“That would be a first.” He removed the bloody cotton.
“What, are you like some big-time famous guy or something?”
“I wouldn’t say all that,” he murmured with a smile, picking up a packet with an alcohol wipe.
“Then what is it?” I asked, and I was curious what his name was, even more now.
His eyes flashed up to mine briefly before dropping and tearing open the packet. “Roland. Roland Graham.”