“Your guess is as good as mine.”
His gaze flicks to his car. “Pretty sure I have a stash. Why don’t I give you a ride?”
I nod as he reaches for the passenger door and holds it open like a valet. In any timeline, I imagine Dax is always a gentleman.
Once he’s in his own seat, he leans across the console, pops open the glove compartment, and digs until he pulls out a strip of Band-Aids.
“I wasn’t sure if I still had these.” He holds the strip between his teeth, then yanks one off with a quick jerk of his head.
“Aren’t you the Boy Scout.”
He pulls the Band-Aid from the packaging, letting the little white papers fall to his lap. “I didn’t make it to Scouts. I quit after Beavers, so no promises.”
He tilts back my chin and applies the Band-Aid with the softest press of his fingers. Satisfied, he reaches for a second Band-Aid. I watch him—he’s absorbed in careful concentration, brows pulled low, biting on his lip. God, I’ve missed him. This comfortable ease between us. It’s only been forty-eight hours, but they were long hours, and the ones where he didn’t know me felt empty and wrong.
“You thinking about bananas again?” Dax looks up briefly from his work to smirk at me.
“Nope. Just thinking about a friend. You remind me of him.”
Dax looks up. “Ah, so he’s incredibly handsome.”
“Some would say.”
Dax sits back in his seat and gives my face a satisfied nod.
“I think you’re all patched up.”
My hand finds my chin, and as my fingers skim over the covered surface, they encounter a lot more Band-Aid than anticipated.
I flip down the overhead passenger mirror and fight back a snort. The wound that required a single Band-Aid is now covered with four.
“I told you I wasn’t making any promises.” He feeds his key into the ignition, and the engine rises to life.
“Where can I take you?” he asks.
“Oh, I live over on…”
Shit.
I can’t remember my address.
It’s either Catherine or Mary. Definitely a girl’s name. How the hell am I going to explain to Dax that I don’t know where I live?
“Take King to Victoria, left on Cannon. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
Dax pulls the car out into traffic, and we travel down King in silence, hitting green lights all the way. The lights from the streetlamps temporarily illuminate his features, highlighting his strong jaw.
I’m not sure if it’s the lighting or if the last five minutes have scarred me in ways I can’t begin to unpack, but Dax looks different. Older? Wiser too, maybe? It’s like that goofy guy I met four years ago in a bar has slowly been replaced piece by piece with this quietly confident man. And for some reason, I failed to notice it happening.
If I’m having an epiphany, it’s halted when I recognize the scraggly maple on the upcoming corner. “Left!” I point to what is, in fact, Catherine Street.
Dax makes a quick turn.
“It’s the white house up on the right.”
He pulls up in front and cuts the engine.
“Well, thank you for the ride. And the rescue. And the patch-up.” I rub my bandage-covered chin.
“Do you need help getting to your door?” Dax nods at the darkened house behind me.
I shake my head. “It’s pretty much a straight shot. Only one sharp turn, but you can see it coming. I think I’ll be okay.”
He moves from his seat, around the car, and to my door so quickly that I have barely undone my seatbelt before he’s holding my door open. He offers his hand, helping me and my groceries out onto the sidewalk, and we stand, facing each other, both with the same uncertain posture as if neither of us is sure of what comes next.
Dax clears his throat. “Maybe I should give you my number. So you can text me and let me know you got in okay.”
I know his number by heart, but this is the progress I’ve been waiting for.
I pull my phone from my purse and enter his digits as he says them, then send a text to him with the message, thanks again. Gemma.
As I place my phone back into my purse, the strap slips from my shoulder. Dax moves like a flash, catching it before it falls to the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” I tell him as he carefully places the strap back on my shoulder, noticing how warm his fingers are even through the heat of my sweatshirt.
It fills me with this urge to dive into his arms again. To feel safe. To feel like me. But he removes his fingers before I do anything stupid.