“No more than ten centimeters.” He points his chin at my phone. “Snap a pic before you start, so you tuck in the end the way your mom did afterward.”
“Good thinking!” I take pictures and stick the phone back in my pocket. “OK, let’s do this!”
The end of the bandage on his upper arm is secured with a safety pin. I remove it. Then I grasp the end, and carefully unroll the gauze. As I reach the inner, bloodstained layers, Darrel’s muscles flex and twitch slightly. He winces.
“Should I stop?” I look up at him. “What if I cause harm?”
“You won’t. It’s just the scratches underneath. The bandage gets stuck to the skin in those places.”
“What do I do?”
“Peel it off. Gently.”
I lift the stuck bit away from the skin and continue moving downward in slo-mo. As more of his skin is revealed, I feign studying the cuts for signs of infection—of which there are luckily none—so that I can take a better look at the bulging muscles of his upper arm. His bicep dazzles me. More than dazzle, it enthralls me. I’m totally spellbound before it.
And he claims he’s lost bulk?!What did his arms look like before? Better not picture them because I might faint.
“Your mother bandages like a war nurse,” he jokes.
Glancing up at him, I grin. “My mother is good at everything.”
Except for bookkeeping and management, which is why her clinic is in trouble.
“She owns her clinic?” He hikes an appreciative eyebrow. “Good for her.”
Shit!I spoke my thoughts aloud again. Did I reveal too much? Will he be able to use this information against her?
He laughs, studying my face. “The part about the bookkeeping wasn’t supposed to be spoken out loud, was it? This isn’t the first time you’ve done that.”
“You think I’m weird?” I ask.
I’m so embarrassed I’m on the verge of tears.
“No, I don’t.” His eyes crinkling up, he adds, “Well, maybe a little bit.”
“More than a little bit,” I say with a bitter smirk.
But you’re better off not knowing how much more.
I resume unwrapping Darrel’s arm. The tip of the tattoo peeks out. A few more downward spiral turns, and the rest of it comes into view.
“That’s it,” he says. “That’s the first tattoo.”
“It’s beautiful!”
He looks down at it. “No cuts or scrapes… Incredible!”
“It lucked out because it’s small.”
The design—a blooming rose entwined with two ribbons—isn’t particularly unique, but it’s very well done.
I clasp my hands behind my back, as the temptation to touch it grows harder to resist. “Does it have a meaning? Is there a special reason you got it?”
“It’s a symbol of a medieval chivalric order, and it represents unity, support, and strength.”
I shoot him a disbelieving look. “With the pretty ribbons?”
“You may not believe me, but that order has been accepting women among its ranks since its inception. Hence the ribbons of a brassiere.” He sits taller. “For centuries, we were the only order open to women!”