My Heart For Yours (Sinful Secrets 2)

“You have really pretty hair,” I murmur. I figure the least I can do is be polite and try to put the man at ease. “You know what’s funny?” I ask, rubbing the wash cloth over a handful of curls. “I don’t think I even know your name.”

“Barrett.” The word is warm and rumbling. I notice the presence of the “t”s on the end and realize he’s not from around here, not from anywhere below the Mason-Dixon Line.

“Anyone ever call you Bear?” I ask him, teasing.

“Yeah.”

I release the hair in my left hand and take another section of wet curls, and when it’s clear he’s not going to expound on his nickname, I say, “I’m sorry I’ve put you in a position to need Bear rehab. In all my years of doing taekwondo, I’ve never hurt someone like this. I think— I guess you scared me. Like I said.”

He’s silent, still, although I feel his shoulders tense. My eyes run down them—I can’t seem to help it—and I notice the ink covering most of the right one: a black emblem featuring a sword. It looks military-ish.

Oh Lord. If he got his head injury in the Army, I’m sure all he needs is to have it split open again so he can be reminded of the circumstances.

I blow out the breath I’m holding. Just get this done and go. I rake my fingers down his nape. “I think I need to glue the wound now, if you still want me to do it.”

His head lifts so our eyes meet in the mirror. His mouth is pressed into a line, and for a long moment, I think he’s going to say “no.” Instead he says, “I’ll hold the right side.”

He lifts his right arm and presses on the right side of the wound with his fingertips.

“Hang on,” I say softly. “I think I should dab it with some gauze.”

He moves his hand out of his hair, handing me a gauze square from the little first aid box. I push his hair out of the way and dab the wound. “Okay.”

His fingers come back, pressing the right side of the wound toward the left side: helping hold it closed. My left hand does the same thing, and when the two sides are joined—a jagged, fire-red puzzle piece fitted together—I grab the Dermabond from where I’ve left it and squeeze the tube to get it going. Then I rub the padded tip from the top of the slash to the bottom. I repeat the process three or four times, then go the other way: from bottom to top. I roll it over the skin a few more times, because I’d rather have too much glue than too little.

“Okay. I think that should be enough.” I lift my right hand, still holding the Dermabond. “I can hold the right side if your arm is tired.”

He smirks.

I smile. “I was starting to think you might be part statue. Or just hating my guts.”

I press my lips together.

Why say that? Do you have to make things awkward?

“The hate would be totally justified,” I ramble. Realizing I’ve almost obligated him to reassure me, I make a frenzied attempt to change the subject: “Hey, are you in the Army or Marines or something?”

This is the new Gwenna: insecure, and trying too hard. It’s no wonder I never spend any time around guys. I’m unfit.

It takes me a second to notice his eyes on mine in the mirror. They feel warmer this time, just a little.

“Why do you ask?” he says after a beat.

“About the Army? Um, because of your tattoos.” The one has a sword in the design, but there are many on his strong, wide back—and even from the brief glance I’ve gotten, they look like a soldier’s ink.

“I am.” He blinks. “Was.”

His reflection in the mirror looks troubled for a split second before he schools it into its usual blank canvas.

“What branch?” I ask, thinking it’s a neutral, polite question.

He looks down at his lap, and then back up at me. “I started in the Army.”

I frown. Started? I don’t get it. “So…what happened after that?”

His fingers let go of his scalp, which seems safely secured now with the Dermabond. He folds his arms over his chest. “I was in the Rangers.”

“Oh, wow.” I don’t know all that much about the Rangers, but since my dad was in the Army, I know the bare essentials. They do special missions, and it’s hard to get through the weed-out training. If I remember correctly, only a dozen out of like 200 troops get in every time they open their doors for new members. I trace my fingertip lightly over the tattoo with the sword. “Is this a Ranger symbol?”