"Cat got your tongue?" he prodded, and I turned to gaze at him, noticing his expression filled with genuine curiosity.
"I only bought that one outfit," I told him simply. "It was all I could afford, and besides, I am wearing my new jeans and boots." I punctuated this by pulling up one leg, bending it at the knee so he could see the black riding boots that caused me to have indigestion with how much I was spending on them, even if they were on sale.
"So I see," he murmured. "But you look like you're about to drown in that shirt."
"Well, you pay me good, but not good enough to get an entirely new wardrobe," I quipped at him. "Baby steps, Mr. Grantham. I'm taking baby steps."
He was quiet for a moment and I thought we'd change subjects, but he said, "If you want...I can give you some money to buy some clothes."
My head snapped over to him so fast, I almost dislocated my neck. Without any regard for the fact that Zack is indeed my employer, I said, "That may be the dumbest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."
"Why?" he shot back.
"Because I work for you. You don't buy me clothes. And even if I didn't work for you, you don't buy me clothes."
"Consider it a bonus," he said with a grin.
"Consider it a dead subject," I muttered. "I buy my own stuff. Always have."
"Are you always this stubborn?" he asked with a laugh.
"Yes," I said, and sniffed.
"Prideful?"
"Yes."
"Unwilling to accept help?" he layered on.
"Always," I said as I raised my chin and stared hard out the windshield.
He didn't respond, and because I was curious as to what he was thinking, I turned to look at him. He never took his eyes from the road, but quietly said, "You're something else, that's for sure."
Pulling the strainer out of the sink, I give it a good shake to get the excess water off it and pour the broccoli into a baking dish. I drizzle a little olive oil over the top and put it into the oven next to the chicken breasts I have baking. I line up some tomatoes on the cutting board to slice for the salad I made.
I give a quick glance down at the old flannel shirt I wore today over my jeans. It's definitely in the baggy category and completely unfashionable. Totally the antithesis to what I wore to the game last night. I was so proud of my purchase. I spent more on that turtleneck and scarf and those jeans and boots than I've ever spent on anything for myself in my life. Granted, they were all on sale, but I still felt the sting to my wallet.
It's a sting, however, that I think was well worth the price, if only for the look on Zack's face when he first saw me. I've never had a man look at me that way...a mixture of awe and appreciation that warmed me from the inside out. For the first time since I was thirteen, I was glad to have the attention of the opposite sex.
It made me feel giddy and powerful all at once.
It made me want to run out and drop all my money on pretty clothes and fancy makeup if Zack would only look at me like that again.
I'm lost in the fantasy of my metamorphosis, so with one clumsy and misplaced swipe of the knife, I cut straight through the tomato and down into the tip of my index finger.
"Shit," I yelp as I drop the knife with a clatter. It falls off the counter, spins end over end, and misses a potentially bloody stab into my foot by only about an inch.
"What happened?" Zack yells back, and I hear him running through the living room.
Turning quickly, I place my bleeding digit under the faucet and turn the water on, watching the bright red turn pale pink as the blood washes away. Snagging a paper towel, I wrap it around my finger and press hard just as Zack comes skidding into the kitchen with Ben hot on his heels.
"I cut my finger," I say, and then bite down on my lip when I pull the paper towel back to look at it. The cut is small, but bright red blood immediately wells up, so I squeeze the paper towel back around me. I feel a little light-headed because I am not a big fan of blood.
"Ben, go back in the living room," Zack says as he walks toward me.
"Is Kate okay?" Ben asks in a small voice.
"Sure I am," I tell him with a brave smile. "Just a small cut. Go back and play your game and dinner will be ready soon."
"I want to see," Ben whines, and takes a step closer.
"Ben...living room...now," Zack says in a stern voice. He doesn't pull that voice out often for Ben, but when he does, it gets results. Never once considering further argument, Ben spins around and runs for the living room.
Even before his back is turned on us and he's scampering out of the kitchen, Zack is taking my hand in his and pulling the paper towel away. "Let me see it."
I turn my head to the side. "How bad is it?"
"Not bad," he says after a moment, and relief courses through me. "I don't think it's deep enough for stitches, but yo
u cut it good. I think a Band-Aid will do, though. Wait here and keep pressure on it."
Zack turns and heads back through the living room, and presumably into his bedroom. I imagine that's where he keeps his first-aid kit. I hold the paper towel tight to my finger, which is starting to throb a bit.
Zack is back in a flash and has peroxide, gauze, and a Band-Aid in hand.
"Jesus, Kate...you're as pale as a ghost," he says as he approaches me.
"I don't do blood well," I mutter as I support myself against the counter with one hand and hold my paper towel-wrapped hand against my chest.
"Big baby," Zack teases, and his calm surety coupled with levity in this moment takes my mind off my finger. Taking hold of one of my elbows as he grasps his supplies in his other hand, he leads me over to the kitchen table. While he lays out everything, I kick one of the chairs back and take a seat. Zack pulls another chair out and faces it toward me, sitting so our knees are touching.
I hold my hand out and he gently removes the paper towel from the cut, but leaves it cradled under my hand. Pulling my hand forward, he rests it on his thigh before releasing it. "Just hold it there."
I do as commanded, and my cut is immediately forgotten as the heat of Zack's leg penetrates his jeans, the paper towel, and my skin. It's the first time I've ever touched his body and I'm immediately overwhelmed.
My mind is in a haze as he uncaps the peroxide and pours it over the cut. He picks up a gauze pad and holds it to the cut, soaking up the liquid and making sure the skin is dried sufficiently. Then he opens a Band-Aid and says, "Lift your hand a bit."
I do, mourning the loss of contact with his leg, which is so very stupid, and watch as he wraps the Band-Aid snugly around the end of my index finger. With one hand he takes hold of my wrist, and with the other he smooths down the edges of the bandage.
Looking up at me, he says, "There. All better."
He doesn't release my wrist.
"Thanks," I say, amazed that I'm able to speak, because my mouth is so dry all of a sudden.
"So you don't do blood well, huh?" he asks with a playful smile, still holding my wrist, and is that...? Yes, his thumb is stroking my skin there.
Shaking my head, I can't form any words as I just stare at him.
He stares right back, the warm brown irises flecked with a hint of gold holding me captive.