Firefly Mountain by Christine DePetrillo Page A

sobered, and Raina shook her head. “No, no,” she said. “This guy is preferred. He looks…what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, I know. Happy. You’re allowed to be that, you know.”
    He nudged her away and turned to find Gini inspecting her ungloved finger. As he walked over, a drop of blood rolled down her perfect flesh and landed on the plywood floor.
    “What happened?” He automatically went into full rescue mode and took her hand in his.
    “Nothing. A splinter got me. A mammoth one. Right through my glove. Got some of it out.” She held up her index finger, but blood covered the slice again.
    Patrick guided her to the small bathroom off the master bedroom. Pointing to the toilet, he said, “Sit.” He pulled a few tissues from the box behind her and made her press them to her finger. “I’ve got some first aid stuff in the other bathroom. I know this bathroom is ugly, but it’s clean.” He gestured to the cracked white tile on the floor and the hideous, wicker-like wallpaper. “Be right back.”
    The instinct to take care of Gini was immediate. As he grabbed the first aid kit, Patrick told himself it was because he was a firefighter. Helping people was what he did. As much as he tried to believe that, he knew other factors were at work here. He should call Jonah. Have him tend to Gini. He was her brother. She’d want family to help her. When Patrick emerged from the other bathroom, however, he turned toward the master bathroom instead of toward the kitchen where Jonah was working.
    Inside the bathroom, Gini appeared small, fragile. Patrick knew she wasn’t. God, he’d seen her brandish his saw like a knight with a sword. She didn’t flinch when drywall or sawdust spit back into her face. She’d used raw physical strength, grunting louder than Patrick sometimes, to free some of the studs. She wasn’t delicate.
    And yet, she was.
    Patrick kneeled beside her and pulled away her hand holding the tissue. Fresh blood pooled in the cut.
    “I washed it,” Gini said, “but I’m a slow clotter.”
    “That’s better than being a fast bleeder,” Patrick said.
    Gini laughed. “Okay, tally mark for you on that one.”
    Patrick smirked and pulled on some gloves.
    “My, my. Aren’t we prepared?” Gini let him rest her hand, palm up, on his knee.
    He looked at the gloves as if not realizing he’d donned them and shrugged. “It’s automatic.”
    “I see. Standard procedure.” Gini squirmed a little when Patrick used tweezers to remove the sliver of wood still in her finger.
    “I follow the rules.” He disinfected the cut and bandaged it in under a minute.
    Gini wiggled her finger, testing its mobility with the bandage. “Ever break the rules?”
    Patrick looked up at her then. Some part of him wanted that to be an invitation, and maybe it was. One dimple showed in her cheek as she grinned at him, her blue eyes unwavering. It would be so easy to lean in and taste her lips, sample what she had to offer, swim in it.
    No, most likely, you’d drown. Then there would be no turning back.
    When he stood, Patrick ran a gloved hand over his left side, smoothing out the wrinkles in his T-shirt, trying to smooth out the scars on his skin under the shirt. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t get rid of them, and he couldn’t let Gini see them.
    “No. Rules are rules. Best to stick to them.” Patrick packed up the supplies he’d used, threw away the gloves, and left the bathroom. After lunch, he’d pair himself up with somebody else. He was mistaking proximity for feelings. Just because he’d spent the morning with Gini didn’t mean he was ready to spend anything else with her.
    He wasn’t ready to spend anything else with anybody.
    ****
    Patrick was noticeably distant through the lunch Haddy doled out from her cooler. While the others chatted and joked, he sat off to the side on one of the several wooden chairs left by the previous owners of the house. Midas lay sprawled out on the floor at his feet.