He turned back to Scarlet and said, “Your tire’s got a chunk taken out of it. And the idiot with the rental company who serviced the vehicle didn’t check to see if the spare was replaced when last used, so you don’t have one. I’ll need to call around in the morning for a new tire. Pull the dent in the wheel well. Unless the rental company will send someone out for you, there’s not much else I can do but offer you dinner and a place to stay for the night. It’ll have to be my loft, because the guest bedroom’s not finished. But I’ll change the sheets for you and sleep on the couch.”
“I hate to put you out like that.”
“I don’t see that either of us has much choice. I’m not inclined to risk my truck as the weather gets worse. Or our lives.”
Scarlet knew precisely why, aside from the obvious hazard of being on the road in a snowstorm.
Cassidy Harkins.
She’d been Sam’s fiancée.
Scarlet said, “Can’t argue with your logic.”
“Good. Now how about we see to that cut?”
She tugged off her gloves, one a bit ravaged from when she’d sliced her hand. She carefully removed the bloodied napkins.
Sam took her hand in his, palm up. His touch was surprisingly gentle, though with a hint of roughness from light calluses, indicating he wasn’t opposed to manual labor. And like Michael’s hand on her bare thigh, Sam’s touch sent shock waves through her body. So much so, she jerked her hand back, out of the cradle his larger one had created.
Scarlet’s heart bounced off the wall of her chest. To cover her adolescent move and her instant reaction to his skin on hers, she said, “I should rinse this off before I bleed on you.”
She skirted him and went to the sink.
He didn’t speak for a few moments, the tension stretching between them. Finally, he told her, “I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
While he disappeared into the storage room, she fought for a steadying breath. All of Sam Reed’s six-foot-two- or -three inches of rugged virility were so not good for her health.
He came back to where she stood and laid out the canvas-covered kit. Without a word, he took her hand again, dabbed it with a paper towel to dry her palm, and then oozed antibiotic over the wound. It stung, but she didn’t flinch this time. Forced herself to remain as still as possible. Hell, she barely even breathed.
Sam placed a cotton pad over the cut and then wound gauze around her hand. After a few passes, he turned her hand over and in a notably gruffer voice than before—was it sexually strained?—he instructed, “Hold this here.” He tapped the gauze with his long, blunt-tipped index
finger and she did as instructed so that he could cut the end of the strand and then apply two strips of tape to secure the bandage.
“Nice job,” she softly said. “Thanks.”
“Should be good as new within the week.”
He glanced up. Their gazes locked. The air shifted between them.
Everything shifted inside her, too.
Her breathing morphed into a paltry crawl. At the same time, a molten sensation flowed through her from head to toe, seeping into all the cracks and crevices created by years of heartache. Making her feel blissfully warm. A little less alone, a little less hollow.
Because this man had experienced heartbreak and loss as well. And the way he so deeply cared for the well-being of the abused and abandoned puppy told Scarlet Sam was a man with vast emotions. Had therefore likely been wrecked to the core over his fiancée’s death. And that of their unborn child.
More tears filled her eyes.
He quietly asked, “Did I hurt you with the antibiotic?”
“No.”
“Then … what?”
“It’s just … I…” She gave a slight shake of her head. Swallowed hard. “I know about the car accident in the Hamptons. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. That.” He carefully released her hand. Made himself busy zipping up the kit and returning it to the other room.
Scarlet felt an odd severing of a sensitive, delicate tie. One that had been woven between them in an instant and cut just as quickly.