“Really, it’s very nice of you to take me. But I’ve had cuts worse than this before. I don’t even need stitches. I can just finish up cleaning and head home.”
What? Was she serious? “You’re getting stitches, and I’m taking you home.” I was frustrated and getting pissed. Not at her. God, who the hell could get pissed at someone who looked like her? But I was pissed that she seemed to think it was OK not to get stitches.
She didn’t argue this time. I glanced over at her, and she was sitting straighter, and her body was leaning toward the door as if she was trying to get away from me. Had I scared her?
“Look, Reese, you were cleaning my sister’s house, and you got hurt. It’s our responsibility to make sure you are properly taken care of. I’m not going to let you finish cleaning the house today or even tomorrow. You can come back once your hand is better and it doesn’t hurt. I’ll be here all week, and I clean up after myself, unlike my sister. I don’t need a housecleaner.”
She didn’t look at me, but she nodded.
It looked like that was the only response I was going to get. Fine. She could pout about this, but seriously, all I’d done was demand that she let me take care of her. What was her deal?
Reese
This day could not get any more humiliating. Mase had turned up the radio for the rest of the ride to the hospital. He hadn’t said another word. I knew he was either angry or frustrated. I was keeping him from a woman, but I’d tried to let him go. He just wouldn’t listen to me.
Once we were at the ER, he got me a soda while we waited, even though I told him I didn’t need one. By the time they took me back for stitches, we had said all of five words to each other. I wanted to tell him to leave again and that I’d get a cab, but I was afraid he’d snap at me. I didn’t know this man. I had no clue what he was capable of.
When they had given me a shot, Mase had held my other hand and told me to squeeze if I needed to. What did that even mean? Was he trying to ease the pain? It was just a shot. When they had stitched up my gash, which needed five stitches, he had continued to hold my hand.
He had told me jokes. They were corny, but I’d laughed. I didn’t think anyone had ever tried to make me laugh before. I knew it was the first time I’d ever been told a joke that wasn’t about me. In school, I had heard enough jokes, but I had been the butt of them all.
Now he was pulling up in front of my apartment. He hadn’t spoken to me during the entire drive. He’d looked like he was going to say something more than once, but he’d stopped himself. Eventually, he’d turned up the radio again, and I knew that meant he was done talking to me.
I couldn’t be hurt over his silence. He had put off his date or girlfriend to take me to the hospital and get stitches. During the whole thing, he had been so nice—more than that, actually, he had been kind. But now his mind was on his sweetheart, the girl who was waiting for him.
I had been called “babe,” “sugar,” and “hot momma” in the past, which still made me cringe. I had also been called other less desirable names, but never “sweetheart.” I wondered what that must feel like. To have someone speak to you that way and mean it. To know he wasn’t going to hurt you.
When he parked the truck, I knew I had to thank him again and send him on his way.
“Thanks again for taking me, and for the soda, and for . . . for, um, holding my hand. I really appreciate it. I’m sorry I ruined your day. And I’ll be back to clean up on Sunday. I don’t have another house booked for that day. And you’re leaving then . . . right?”
Mase sighed and looked at me. “Yeah, I’m heading home Sunday. At least, that’s the plan right now. But don’t worry about the house until your hand is better. Nan won’t be back for another month. She’s in Paris.”
Paris. Wow. I couldn’t imagine going somewhere like Paris. I wondered what this Nan looked like. If she was his sister, I imagined she was beautiful.
“OK, thanks,” I said again, unable to stop thanking him. I grabbed my backpack and opened the truck door.
“Wait. Let me help you down,” Mase said, stopping me. He had done this every time I got into or out of the truck. It was as if he didn’t think I could just hop down on my own without hurting myself. But then again, after what he had witnessed today, he probably thought I was a klutz.
He was in front of me, holding out his hand again for me to take. I let him help me, because I was sure it was the last time I’d see this man. He didn’t realize it, but he’d given me hope. And he’d shown me that not all men were evil.
I bit my tongue to keep from thanking him again. Instead, I just nodded and headed for apartment 1C.
“Reese,” Mase called out, stopping me in my tracks.
I turned to look back at him. The sun was setting behind him, and I was sure nothing had ever been quite that perfect in all of history.
“You didn’t ruin my day,” was all he said before opening his truck door and climbing back up.
I wanted to watch him drive away. But I didn’t.
The next morning, my hand was throbbing. But I took the antibiotic and pain medicine the doctor had given me and got ready for work. I had another house to clean that day in Rosemary Beach. Jimmy had gotten me this one, because he was friends with the owners. I wasn’t about to let him down and call in sick.
Jimmy was standing outside my door with two to-go cups of cappuccino, smiling. He wasn’t just nice, he was gorgeous. And he knew it. It was odd that I didn’t think of him as a regular guy, though. He was more like my very first girlfriend. I’d told him that once, and he’d cackled with laughter.