With a Little T.L.C. by Teresa Southwick

realized, as her gaze wandered over his worn jeans covering muscular thighs.
    All her gazing added up to torment for her nerves. As grateful as she was to have her desk, she was wondering if it had been a mistake to accept his offer of help. She’d meant what she’d told him about her house having no memories. Well, today she’d made a whole pile of them, and every last one starred Joe Marchetti.
    â€œOkay, you can help with the dishes,” she said, her voice a husky version of her norm.
    He nodded, then took two long strides to the sink where he turned on the water. He lifted a plate and started to rinse, wincing when water splashed on a nasty cut he’d acquired in the line of carpenter duty.
    Liz’s bedside manner kicked into high gear. “Okay, hero, it’s time to dress that battle wound.” She reached over to shut off the faucet.
    He glanced at his thumb, the slash where his screwdriver had slipped and gouged a long crevice. “It’s just a flesh wound. No big deal.”
    â€œThis is me you’re talking to. Never fear, Nancy Nurse is here. No laceration too big, too small or toochallenging. Just wait here while I go get a needle and thread from my sewing kit.”
    A skeptical look crossed his face just before he ever so casually stuck his hand in his pocket. “No offense, Nancy, but I’d like a little novocaine with my sutures.”
    â€œYou? Just-a-flesh-wound Marchetti?” She grinned. “Don’t be a wimp. I’ve got a turkey baster you can bite down on.” She turned away and started down the hall.
    â€œLiz,” he called. “You really don’t have to do this.”
    â€œYou don’t want to have a big, ugly, scar marring that perfect body, do you?” Take it lightly, she thought, as she rummaged through her medicine cabinet. She carried her supplies back into the kitchen.
    Joe inspected the disinfectant, ointment, and bandages she plopped down on the table. A wry expression turned up the corners of his attractive mouth. “You were pulling my leg,” he accused.
    â€œWould I do that?”
    â€œYes. And take great satisfaction in making me squirm,” he added.
    â€œI’m not kidding now, Joe, this really does need to be cleaned up. Infection can be nasty and painful. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” She took his big hand into her smaller one.
    The difference in their hands made her feel delicate and feminine to his bigger, tougher masculinity. That thought started her insides buzzing like a beehive at peak pollinating time. He had nice hands—long, strong fingers. She put the brakes on that train of thought before it could go any farther, like how those hands would feel holding her, touching her. Grabbingthe brown plastic bottle of peroxide, she pulled him over to the sink.
    â€œThis won’t hurt a bit,” she said, unable to keep the twinkle from her eyes.
    â€œYou told me you’re lying when you say that,” he protested.
    â€œDon’t be a baby. How bad can it hurt? This little scratch hardly slowed you down today.”
    As she held his hand over the sink, their forearms brushed and bumped. Her breast scraped his arm and she thought he sucked in a quick gulp of air. Although she was disinfecting his wound at the same time so she couldn’t be sure stinging pain wasn’t what had caused his reaction.
    â€œWe need to let that bubble for a bit,” she said. She liked holding his hand. She liked being close to him, and enjoyed the scent of his aftershave as it burrowed inside her and started the buzzing all over again. How long could she keep him in this position without him getting suspicious, she wondered.
    She reveled in his strength. His company wasn’t bad either. He was charming and certainly not hard on the eyes.
    â€œAfter we clean up the kitchen, want to watch a video?” The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to