than I had entering it the night before, and winced as I crouched to relieve myself behind a bush. I was sure that I would fall from my squat and roll right down the hill below me, but miraculously I didn’t.
As everyone else took down their tents, I poured a bottle of water over my head and worked it through to my scalp. After, I applied nearly an entire stick of deodorant to my body in all the places I didn’t know you could sweat.
When I went to put the pack on, I dropped it almost immediately, the brush against my chafed skin shocking me with pain.
Shit.
“What’s wrong?” Jude asked, coming toward me with a mug of coffee.
I debated not telling him, not wanting to feel, once again, like a child who was out of her league. But the thought of putting on my pack without any potential relief caused me to speak. “I have some chafing,” I said, awkwardly pointing to my shoulders.
He walked closer, eyebrows knit together, and handed me his mug. “Let me see,” he said. He looked at me as if he wanted my permission and I could do nothing but nod under his golden brown gaze.
One hand came to the right side of my neck, holding me in place as he used his other hand to tug the shirt over my left shoulder.
I should have been thinking about the burn on my chest, but all I could think about was his warm, heavy hands on my skin, his eyes on my chest, and the way he smelled so damn good that all I could breathe was his scent.
“Well, that’s a good one,” he said lightly. He switched hands so he cradled the left side of my neck as he pulled the right shoulder of the shirt down. “You must feel so accomplished.”
I smiled at the thought. “Yes, burns on my feet, heels, back and shoulders. I gave it my all.”
“If you weren’t so bony, it wouldn’t have happened.”
I tilted my head to the side, the side where he cradled my neck. “No one has accused me of being bony.”
He blinked and then narrowed his eyes. He poked my collarbone with his forefinger and I winced from the pain. “They weren’t looking at you then.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I turned away. Anything to keep me from staring too long at his eyes.
One smooth, warm hand squeezed my bare shoulder before he let go. “Let’s see about putting some salve on those burns.”
I merely nodded, willing to do whatever the boy scout slash tent guy told me to do. When he returned with the ointment, I was still holding his cup of coffee.
I thrust it toward him and took the tube from his hands, not wanting to feel him rubbing it into my skin. “Thanks,” I said, popping it open and squeezing the clear goo from it. I rubbed it into each burn and while I didn’t feel instantly better, my skin felt protected.
As I passed him the tube, he asked, “You mentioned your back had burns too?”
My hand froze in midair, his hand on mine as if he would take the tube back. Again, all I could do was nod.
“Want me to get those?”
Again, dumbly, I nodded in response.
He motioned with his finger for me to turn around, so I did and lifted up my shirt. The burns were right where my shirt met my leggings, so I tugged my leggings down just an inch, but it made me feel a hundred times more exposed.
His warm hand closed on the curve of my waist to steady me as he gently rubbed the ointment into the burn. I wondered if he could feel the way my heart beat rapidly against its cage from his touch.
“Trista,” he said, his breath on my back.
I resisted the urge to arch my spine. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to bandage this back here. It’s worse than your shoulders and I hate to think of how it might look after another day rubbing against it.”
“Okay.”
He was gone for a second as he grabbed bandages from his pack and I took the opportunity to let out the breath I’d held captive in my chest as he’d touched me. When he returned, I gave him a weak smile.
“When you get home tonight, make sure you clean these,” he said as he applied the
As everyone else took down their tents, I poured a bottle of water over my head and worked it through to my scalp. After, I applied nearly an entire stick of deodorant to my body in all the places I didn’t know you could sweat.
When I went to put the pack on, I dropped it almost immediately, the brush against my chafed skin shocking me with pain.
Shit.
“What’s wrong?” Jude asked, coming toward me with a mug of coffee.
I debated not telling him, not wanting to feel, once again, like a child who was out of her league. But the thought of putting on my pack without any potential relief caused me to speak. “I have some chafing,” I said, awkwardly pointing to my shoulders.
He walked closer, eyebrows knit together, and handed me his mug. “Let me see,” he said. He looked at me as if he wanted my permission and I could do nothing but nod under his golden brown gaze.
One hand came to the right side of my neck, holding me in place as he used his other hand to tug the shirt over my left shoulder.
I should have been thinking about the burn on my chest, but all I could think about was his warm, heavy hands on my skin, his eyes on my chest, and the way he smelled so damn good that all I could breathe was his scent.
“Well, that’s a good one,” he said lightly. He switched hands so he cradled the left side of my neck as he pulled the right shoulder of the shirt down. “You must feel so accomplished.”
I smiled at the thought. “Yes, burns on my feet, heels, back and shoulders. I gave it my all.”
“If you weren’t so bony, it wouldn’t have happened.”
I tilted my head to the side, the side where he cradled my neck. “No one has accused me of being bony.”
He blinked and then narrowed his eyes. He poked my collarbone with his forefinger and I winced from the pain. “They weren’t looking at you then.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I turned away. Anything to keep me from staring too long at his eyes.
One smooth, warm hand squeezed my bare shoulder before he let go. “Let’s see about putting some salve on those burns.”
I merely nodded, willing to do whatever the boy scout slash tent guy told me to do. When he returned with the ointment, I was still holding his cup of coffee.
I thrust it toward him and took the tube from his hands, not wanting to feel him rubbing it into my skin. “Thanks,” I said, popping it open and squeezing the clear goo from it. I rubbed it into each burn and while I didn’t feel instantly better, my skin felt protected.
As I passed him the tube, he asked, “You mentioned your back had burns too?”
My hand froze in midair, his hand on mine as if he would take the tube back. Again, all I could do was nod.
“Want me to get those?”
Again, dumbly, I nodded in response.
He motioned with his finger for me to turn around, so I did and lifted up my shirt. The burns were right where my shirt met my leggings, so I tugged my leggings down just an inch, but it made me feel a hundred times more exposed.
His warm hand closed on the curve of my waist to steady me as he gently rubbed the ointment into the burn. I wondered if he could feel the way my heart beat rapidly against its cage from his touch.
“Trista,” he said, his breath on my back.
I resisted the urge to arch my spine. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to bandage this back here. It’s worse than your shoulders and I hate to think of how it might look after another day rubbing against it.”
“Okay.”
He was gone for a second as he grabbed bandages from his pack and I took the opportunity to let out the breath I’d held captive in my chest as he’d touched me. When he returned, I gave him a weak smile.
“When you get home tonight, make sure you clean these,” he said as he applied the
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