“You’re in no position to try to sound sexy right now, Nashville.” She dabs the wipe along the edge of a blister on my right heel. “Weeping blisters are the opposite of sexy.”
“Fair point.” I try not to flinch at how badly it stings. “And we’re just friends.”
“Not exactly,” she counters, and I want to come back with something clever, but she presses the wipe against the burst blister on the ball of my foot, and I suck in a breath through my teeth, then close my eyes and grip the edge of the sleeping bag with both hands. The vulnerability of having this woman tend to my wrecked feet with the same care she likely uses when shelving first editions is almost worse than the pain.
Running up the trail bare-ass naked in the dark would expose less than this moment.
But when she gently rubs the antibiotic ointment onto my raw skin, the relief is so immediate it has to be all in my head. My body doesn’t care. It takes the reprieve from the pain and runs with it, at the same time pledging its unwavering loyalty to Sloane Winslow. I’m here for that.
“Thank you,” I say roughly.
She doesn’t look up as she bandages the worst of the damage. I sit still and let this woman take care of me with her focused gaze and steady hands because I don’t know how to stop her. I’m also not sure I want to.
When the last blister is bandaged, she sits back on her heels and surveys her work with a satisfiedexpression.
A shiver moves through her, and she rolls her shoulders against the chill. “It’s going to be colder tonight,” she says, snapping closed the first-aid kit.
I’d be more than happy to warm her up. Except I’m not sure I can move without my feet staging a revolt. My shoulders and back would love to get in on this game as well.
“Maybe,” I agree, like the dropping temperature means nothing to me.
Her lips press together in a thin line. “You should be sleeping in a tent.”
“I’ll be fine, Sloane. Don’t worry about me.”
With a curt nod, she stands and brushes dirt from her knees. She takes a step away from me, then turns back, chin lifted, like she’s already regretting what she’s about to say.
“Bring your sleeping bag into my tent. If we leave the packs outside, there’s room for both of us.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’m going to make the offer once, Jensen. Take it or leave it.”
“Take it.” I sit up straighter. “Absolutely take it.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.” She points at me. “You’ll keep your hands to yourself.”
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers, pretty sure it’s the wrong salute.
“You were never a Boy Scout,” she says with a snort.
“Well then, I swear on my mother’s grave.” The oath leaves my mouth before I realize what I’m saying. I haven’t invoked a promise that solemn since the day my mom died, and I swore to her I’d keep Jamie safe.
Sloane’s eyes widen, and the air between us sparks, but neither of us looks away. The expression in her blue gaze says she understands what I just put on the table without meaning to.
“Do you need help with your stuff?” Her voice has lost itsedge.
“I’ve got it.”
“I’ll make room.”
I watch her walk toward the tent, her silhouette almost otherworldly in the shadows. I know I’ll write a song about this moment one day.
I pull on clean socks and force my feet into the boots, keeping them undone more because my trembling fingers might not be able to handle lacing them then because of the relief it brings me. Gathering my pack and sleeping bag, I think about the promise I made to my mother, the one I haven’t honored. Jamie’s troubled life is proof that I failed at the most important thing I was ever asked to do.
But Icankeep my hands to myself and respect Sloane’s boundaries. I can be the man she needs, blisters be damned.
And I need to keep that promise. Because what I suspected all along—first during those two unforgettable nights and then in the months after, where her memory was the only thing keeping me company—is turning out to be true. As much as I want her, Sloane Winslow is too good for me.