Page 26 of Off the Mark
“Pretending to date you,” he murmured. “Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”
It was. And I had. And Ineededthis. I’d noticed the swooned look of a few fans when he’d gently redirected me. That reaction was theexact reasonwhy I suggested this absurd idea in the first place.
Still pissed me off though, how much the weight of his arm wrapped around my shoulders felt like a comfort. The way the intensity of his focus was like being burned up by the sun.
And not a bad burn either. Which was irritating.
But instead, I attempted another smile. It was hot out, the air dusty, the lot busy and loud. I pulled open the side door of my sea-green truck and fished out my first aid kit. While Rowan picked through the splints and gauze, I lowered the bed and tried to haul myself in.
Triedbeing the operative word.
My busted hand wasn’t broken—Rowan was aggravatingly correct—but putting weight on it wasn’t ideal. A second later, he stood next to me, mirth in his gaze.
“Have something you want to add?” I asked, trying again.
“Not specifically. But I can lift you. If you’d like.” His eyes flicked behind us then back to me. I could read what he was trying to communicate.
People watching. People interested. Fans with cameras.
“Thank you for asking,” I said, “and uh…go for it.”
He reached over the side of the truck and set the first aid kit into the bed. Those large, strong hands landed on my waist, and I was briefly airborne then softly seated. He stepped back quickly, putting space between us. His throat worked on a swallow.
“I guess that’s the…boyfriendly…thing to do,” I managed.
He waved it off, taking my hand and placing it on my knee. “I’m asking this as a friend but…do you ever have anyone help you on race day? A mechanic? A trainer?”
“Not really, no.” I lifted my chin. “I’ve never needed it.”
He didn’t respond, merely tore open the antibiotic wipes and took my hand in his. “Look up at me?”
I did, prepared for the sting and—
“Fuck, why does it feel like that every time?”
One side of his mouth hitched up. “The second time I broke one of my fingers, I was running from a girl’s jealous boyfriend.” At the sign of my brow raising, he continued. “It’s not what you think. Well, technically, it is. She’d taken me home for the night but neglected to mention said boyfriend. A serious one, who worked the night shift.”
“He caught you?” The fizzing pain in my knuckles was briefly ignored.
“Almost.” Another wink. “I ran out of there, carrying my clothes, but snagged my finger in their sliding glass door on the way out. Didn’t notice until I was a block away and had to call Dean to take me to the ER.” He held up his right pinky, which did have a slight bend to it. “Luckily it wasn’t my throwing hand. It hurts when it rains though.”
His head dipped as he applied the butterfly bandages, and I realized much too late how utterly surrounded I was—my knees brushed the soft material of his shorts. His upper body blocked the sun and parts of the crowd. The side of his neck was exposed to me, all strong corded muscle.
I inhaled Rowan’s scent, familiar even after our time apart: clean soap, warm sun and green grass.
“There…we…go.” He raised my hand for my perusal. “How’s that feel?”
I blinked, refocused.
“Uh…better. Feels better. Thanks,” I muttered. “Will your ego only increase if I say that you’re good at this?”
“Good at what?” He slid the brim of his hat up an inch. “Bandaging your knuckles or being a boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes. “The knuckles, O’Callaghan.”
He grinned. “That’s the sound of my ego doubling in size.”
I turned to the racing track, hiding a smile, and saw Dempsey making her way toward us with a quizzical, but intrigued, expression. Looking back at him, I said, “I thought this was the very worst time for you to do this…pretend datingthing with me. I told you not to feel obligated. I can figure something out on my own, I always do.”
