Instead, I focus on the living room, anything to avoid looking at his bed again. Photographs cover the walls of his house. Some look like his family, combinations of Ben with his mom, dad, and a sister. But most of the photos are landscapes and nature shots. Deserts, enormous agave, mountains, and Aspen trees. They're beautiful and I wonder where he bought them.
I'm distracted when Ben reemerges with a huge first aid bag. And maybe it's the wrong moment to notice, but even the way he walks is a turn on. His stride is masculine and purposeful. Kind of like everything else about him. I feel like a tiny clumsy hobbit next to him.
Ben sets the bag on the coffee table before pulling the entire thing closer. When he sits next to me, the couch dips and I slide towards him. His thigh presses against mine and he's alarmingly close. Maybe I should scoot away? Yes, I definitely should. But I really don't want to.
So… I let him crowd me and I pretend like I don’t notice that he didn’t put a shirt on when he disappeared to get the bag. His tan skin is still glistening and bare. Sitting this close I can see the dusting of light brown hair on his chest and the sheen of sweat that really shouldn't be sexy, but he's got this Henry Cavill thing going on and all I can think of is Clark Kent running shirtless in the rain.
Aaaand I'm staring. My eyes shoot up when I realize what I'm doing, and I must have a guilty look on my face because Ben looks smug as hell. Did I just softly sigh while inappropriately fantasizing about a man sitting right next to me? I must have hit my head harder than I thought, because I am clearly concussed.
"Shit. Sorry," I mutter.
"Why?" Ben laughs. "Look all you want. I don't mind." He's still chuckling as he pulls little packets, gauze, and tape out of his bag. He puts on a pair of gloves and opens an antibacterial cleansing cloth. "Look, this might sting but you need to hold still." I nod as he leans in even closer and touches it to my forehead. He's not wrong, it does sting a bit as he gently wipes my forehead clean of blood, but I don't care. His face is inches from mine and sweet baby Jesus, I can smell him. He smells like fresh soap and sweat and when he breathes, his breath is vaguely minty. Meanwhile, I rolled out of bed, literally, and stomped over here unbrushed, unshowered, and only half dressed. Nice.
Ben pulls his head back a bit to look at my face as he works on me.
"Are you ok? Does that hurt?" he asks.
"Oh, no. I mean, yes a little but it doesn't bother me," I reply. "I mean, I have a high pain tolerance. I'm not going to be a baby about a little antiseptic." He smiles at me as I babble. His eyes have that calculating intensity again, but they never lose the sweet-looking crinkles at the corners. I snap my mouth shut and resist the urge to fix my hair. I don't think I even want to know how bad it is.
Ben squeezes antibiotic ointment onto a Q-Tip and then his big hand is cupping my jaw, holding me still while he spreads the ointment on my forehead. I watch his eyes as he focuses on his work. This feels weirdly intimate and I hate to admit that I'm disappointed when he lets my face go, but I hold still as he tapes a piece of gauze to my face.
"There. No more gaping head wound." He sits back with a smile and cracks a disposable ice pack, holding it to my forehead. "Hold that there for 15 minutes." He collects the trash from fixing me up and as he stands, he says, "Tell me again how all of this was my fault?"
I suddenly remember my anger and follow him into the kitchen, ice pressed against my face and my free hand on my hip.
"Tell me the honest truth: are you mowing this early just to fuck with me?" I ask.
He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back against the kitchen counter as he tosses the wrappers in the trash can. He looks down, trying to hide a grin, and his sandy brown curls fall over his forehead.
"Yes."
I'm seeing red. I don't care how fucking hot he is or how good he smells. I don't even care that I like the way he touches me. I hate his smug ass.