Kayden stood three feet away, barefoot and shirtless, wearing gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips. His hair was damp like he’d just showered, and he smelled like soap and another scent I couldn’t place. But it was distinctly him. Clean. Manly. Damn distracting.
The bullet wound on his upper left arm was still bleeding.
And he was grinning at me like I’d just made his entire night.
Cocky bastard probably thought I’d come here for him.
Well, I had, technically. Just not the way he was thinking.
“Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?” He winked.
I held up the first aid kit. “You need to treat that wound.”
His grin widened. “Right.” He stepped back, gesturing me into the loft with a sweep of his arm like he was inviting me into a palace.
I stepped inside. The space wasn’t large, but it was all Kayden. Practical. Masculine. So completely him, it made my chest ache. A king-size bed dominated one corner, the sheets rumpled like he’d been lying there before I’d climbed up. A small dining table with two chairs sat near the window. A makeshift kitchenette ran along one wall in rough timber, with a hose rigged for running water, and shelves stocked with tins and bottles.
No sofa.
Damn it.
My plan to camp out and keep watch just got a lot more complicated.
I forced my gaze away from the bed and focused on Kayden. “Let’s take a look at that bullet wound. Sit.”
He dropped into one of the chairs at the table, still grinning, and I set the first aid kit down with more force than necessary.
I pulled out antiseptic, gauze, and bandages, then leaned in to inspect the wound. “Jesus, Kayden. Why didn’t you tell me this was so bad?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You might need stitches.” The bullet had grazed him, tearing an angry groove through his flesh that must hurt like hell. Thankfully, it wasn’t deep, but it was raw and still bleeding.
“You sure you don’t want a doctor? Or hospital?”
“You’re here now.” He shrugged his good shoulder. “Besides, I’ve had worse.”
“Big tough man, huh?” Just like I remembered him riding those bucking bulls at the rodeo all those years ago. I could still see him—one hand in the air, the other gripping the rope, grinning like he could conquer the world. That reckless grin hadn’t changed one bit. I hated how I could still feel the fear I’d had for him back then.
I snapped on gloves. “This is going to hurt.”
“I can handle it.”
I dabbed at the wound with gauze soaked in antiseptic, and he hissed through his teeth.
“Told you,” I said.
“You’re enjoying this.”
I’m enjoying seeing you without your shirt on. Damn it. I cleared my throat. “A little.”
His laugh was low and rough, and sounded just like I’d remembered, though his voice was much deeper than it had been ten years ago.
As my mind whirled with too many memories of our steamy nights together, I used cotton wool to catch the blood trickling down his bicep. I clenched my jaw, working in silence, forcing myself to focus. Cleaning the wound. Applying ointment. Trying to ignore how close I was to him. How warm his skin felt under my fingers. How his breathing had slowed and deepened.
“That’s going to leave a scar,” I said, wrapping the bandage around his arm.
“Good. Maybe it’ll impress my grandkids one day.” His tone was becoming way too intimate for my liking.