And, in this case, that meant the glasses never ran empty.
No one’s mouths would be dry while talking and drinking and eating the first course—a family salad. And wow, that thought wasn’t ever going to escape his brain. Family salad. Rafe and Cora. He shuddered.
The point was that he refilled glasses.
There.
Done.
Enough thinking about family salads.
Back to making sure everyone had something to wash down the necessary green things.
He winced because that thought wasn’t much better and—
“Hey, everyone.”
“Fuck,” he hissed because he’d jabbed the bottle opener into his thumb. Stifling another curse, he squeezed his bleeding finger, quickly moved away from the bottle of wine he’d been about to open, and shoved his hand under the faucet.
Something his brothers missed because his family was greeting Tiffany…and Mel.
“You okay, baby?”
His brothers had missed his injury (thankfully, since the shit-giving would begin). But his mom hadn’t.
Of course not.
“I’m fine, Mom,” he said, snagging a paper towel and turning toward her. “The opener slipped.” He squeezed by her, picked up the bottle opener, and brought it to the sink. “I’ll just get a Band-Aid and then come right back.”
Her expression had something on the edges that told him she didn’t quite buy his explanation, but it also said she wouldn’t push.
Good.
He escaped into the hall, shoved into the bathroom, partly closed the door, and began rummaging through the drawer where his mom always kept first aid supplies.
Because eight kids—seven of them boys who were nuts and one of them a daughter who was determined to keep up with them.
Also, because even though her eight kids were grown, there were still eight of them.
Someone was always getting hurt.
He’d just extracted the box of bandages and was wrestling with the top when the door swung open and slammed into his back.
He grunted.
“Crap! Oh my God, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize anyone was…” Mel’s words trailed off, probably realizing that it was him she’d tried to lay out with the door. “…in here,” she finished quietly. Her throat worked, eyes sliding to the side, but he saw they were damp.
From embarrassment?
From worry?
Because it was him and it was her and—
Her gaze drifted back, those eyes now dry and widening. “Are you okay?”
God, she was sweet.
“Fine, sweets,” he murmured. “I just cut myself.”
Teeth pressing into her bottom lip. “Right.”
“You can go.”
She jerked, gaze sliding away again, and fuck, that sounded worse than he intended. “Mel—”
He watched the side of her mouth press flat, her shoulders straighten, and then she turned her head back to him. “Here,” she murmured, surprising the shit out of him by shifting around the door, moving into the bathroom, and reaching for the box.
She got the top open, a bandage out, and set it on the counter.
“Let me see.”
Dangerous territory letting her touch him.
It made him want things she wasn’t ready for.
Despite that, Ash held perfectly still as she reached out for his hand, as she drew it close, as she carefully, gently peeled back the paper towel.
“Oh, honey,” she whispered.
His heart convulsed.
But he still didn’t move, not even when she lifted his finger toward her mouth, gently blew on the cut.
“That’s got to sting.”
He wasn’t feeling a damned thing right then.
Or at least, he wasn’t feeling anything above his waist.
Below it…
Problems.
Hard fucking problems.
“I don’t think it needs stitches,” she murmured.
He grunted.
“But you should probably wash this out, just in case.” A glance up at him. “Paper towels aren’t exactly sanitary.”
“Yeah.” And yeah, it was a rasp. Which was a big fucking problem.
A big, fucking hard problem.
Her eyes shot to his, and she nibbled at of the corner of her mouth, a blip of edgy tension gathering in her green eyes.
He cleared his throat, tugged his hand free.
Stepped slightly to the side—which had the plus of creating some distance between them as well as bringing him closer to the sink and the soap. Buying time—and not grabbing her hand, dragging it down between their bodies, pressing her fingers to the length of his erection, hoping they clenched tight. Not wrapping his arms around her, slamming his mouth down on hers, kissing her in the way he’d been dreaming about since the first time he’d seen that pouty, fuckable mouth. Nope. He just stepped to the sink, loaded up with soap, and began washing his hands.
But when he reached for the towel, she caught his wrist.
“No,” she said, drawing his arm back. “That’s dirty, too.” Then she was covering his cut with a piece of gauze and using another to dry the skin of his palm and wrist and the bases of his fingers.
The gauze disappeared.
The bandage was open and being smoothed over his skin.
“I don’t think this needs stitches,” she whispered, pressing down the edges, making they wouldn’t roll up. “But it’s pretty deep. You might want—”
“I’m fine, sweets,” he said, giving in and touching her, stroking back a strand of hair from her cheek.
“But…” She hesitated. “You’re hurt.”
Her skin was silk as he ran his thumb over her jaw. “It’s just a cut, baby.”
The baby made her freeze.
“Right.” Gaze gliding away, teeth in her bottom lip, pressing into that plump pink and then releasing.
“Mel—”
She whipped around, reached for the door handle. “I’m going to go help your mom with dinner.”
“Mel.”
“She’s got a lot of mouths to feed—”
“Mel.”
“—and I should—”
Ash snagged her arm, drew her to a stop. “Sweets,” he said, holding her in place as he shifted past her, moved so he could see her face. “I’m guessing you came in to use”—he nodded toward the toilet—“the facilities.”
Her cheeks flared bright pink.
He released her, stepped toward the door, paused. “Thanks for the patch up, sweets.”
More pink. Those plump lips parting on a shaking exhale.
Fuck, he wanted to kiss her.
Instead, he shoved down the urge, spun on his heel, and got the fuck out of that bathroom.
Shutting the door as he went.
Because he needed a barrier between everything he wanted…
And everything he couldn’t have.
Seven
Mel
She was awake.
Again.
Her witching hour.
Only now she lay awake in the dark, trying not to think about the fact that if she turned on the lights or watched TV, Ash might be lurking out there somewhere, ready to knock on her door.
And shove her into bed.
And hold her close all night.
“Oh, poor me,” she muttered, reaching for her phone and yanking the cord free.