Page 12 of Small Town Swoo
I brought him his drink, trying not to stare at his mouth on the rim of the glass as he took a sip.
“So, how are you?” he asked. “It’s been a while.”
“Busy.” I started slicing limes again, but my hands felt jittery.
“I didn’t know you were working here.”
“Just Fridays and Saturdays.”
“And you’re still at the diner too?”
I nodded, working my knife faster, gripping it harder. “Yep.”
“Living with your parents?”
“No,” I said. “I bought a house.”
“Oh yeah? Where is it?”
“On the—ouch!” I’d sliced my left index finger, and blood spilled from the gash. I grabbed it with myother hand, but I must have had lime juice on my fingers, because it stung like a motherfucker. “Dammit!”
Dash was off his stool and racing around the bar in a heartbeat. He ran the water in the sink, grabbed my wrist and held my hand beneath the cold flow. “Can someone get me a clean towel?”
A barback handed him one, and I stood there in a daze as Dash rinsed the cut, examined it, then pressed against it with the clean towel. I could feel my pulse in my finger.
“Ari?” Dash looked me in the eye. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, although I felt woozy.
“I think you need stitches.” He turned to the barback. “Can you grab Xander for me?”
“On it.”
“Ari, come here and sit down.” With one of his hands still holding the towel around my injured finger, Dash put the other on my lower back and led me around the bar, where someone vacated a stool for me.
I perched on it and looked down at the blood seeping through the towel. “Oh, shit.”
Xander appeared at my side, his expression concerned. He took one look at the bloodstained towel and said, “You need to go to the E.R.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said. Ihatedneedles—the thought of stitches was worse than the pain of the cut.
“Yeah. It is.” Xander’s tone told me not to argue. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Do you have insurance?”
I nodded. “Through the diner.”
“Okay. I’ll cover any costs that insurance doesn’t.” He looked at his brother. “Dash, do you have a car?”
“Yes. I rented one.”
“Good. Take her now.”
I gave up fighting—no way I’d win against them both. “Can someone please grab my purse? It’s behind the bar.”
“I’ve got it,” Dash said.
Three minutes later, he pulled open the passenger door of a luxurious black SUV, and once I slid in, he set my purse on my lap and buckled my seatbelt. As he leaned over me, I caught a whiff of his cologne, or maybe it was a hair product or even just his skin. Whatever it was made me want to bury my face in his neck and inhale deeply.
He shut the door and hurried around to the driver’s side, while I closed my eyes and squeezed the towel around my finger. Of all the nights I’d imagined us driving off somewhere together, never once was it the emergency room.
