He’s embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed.
“You need something more absorbent,” I say, stepping into the laundry room, my heels clacking on the tiles.
It’s probably as large as my bedroom, a line of high-end commercial washers and dryers on one side, a row of white-painted wooden cabinets on the other. I pick a cabinet and start rifling through one by one.
“Cotton can be good at absorbing blood but not at that tight a weave. You need something looser, like flannel. Or with a larger surface area, like terry cloth. Or…” I fling aside washcloths and towels until I find what I’m looking for, holding up a light green towel. “Bamboo, if you want to be eco-friendly.”
I toss him the towel. He observes me for a moment, eyes narrowing.
“Do you make a habit of cleaning up blood?”
I raise my eyebrows. “About once a month,” I say dryly.
“Ah.” His cheeks flush as he scrubs at his hands.
“You’re making a mess of yourself,” I say. “Take your shirt off.”
He freezes. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve cleaned a few wounds in my time, and it helps if you can seewhat you’re dealing with.” I’m already looking through the cabinets for a first aid kit. There’s a rustle of fabric behind me, and by the time I’ve found a bright red box with a white cross on it, he’s shirtless.
Shit, this guy looks a lot stronger without his clothes. He’s still thin, but his muscles are defined enough that he might be able to bench-press me.
I’m only noticing because it might be relevant to the job. Not for any other reason.
I clear my throat and nod to a nearby stool. “Sit.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Sit.”
He does, and I start rummaging through the first aid kit.
“Care to tell me what happened?” I ask.
“Nosebleed,” he says.
“Ah.” I fight an eye roll. There’s blood caked under his fingernails and bruises coming up on his forearms and neck.
I pour some antiseptic on the towel and gently start wiping the blood from his palms.
“Do you always arrive half an hour early?” he asks. “Or were you trying to catch me off guard?”
I cringe, though it’s fine if he sees through this little ploy. It’ll make him think he’s caught me, that he has the upper hand.
“Do you always get nosebleeds right before having company?” I ask. “Or were you particularly excited to see me?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Last time I saw you, you nearly gave me a bloody nose. I thought I would get a head start.”
I take his hand and slowly turn it over. I run my fingers over the wounds on his knuckles. His breath catches.
“And do you often get bloody knuckles too?”
He gives me a sheepish look. “Occasionally.”
I step between his legs to move close enough to wipe the bloodfrom his face. There’s a cut on his lower lip, another at his eyebrow. He seems to enjoy the attention, the flirting, so I lean into it. Not that much of a hardship, to be honest.
“Are these occasional bloody knuckles something I’m going to have to worry about?” I ask softly.