ut what happened to Chloe when she was in high school.
But who would have thought it was possible for Chloe’s douchebag of an older brother to actually be human instead of a robot? Not to mention…nice? Especially since it’s only been ten minutes since he called me a spoiled brat…and only fifteen since he called me a whore.
Of course, I called him one first, so I’d say we’re about equal in the being-awful-to-each-other department. Though he’s making up ground fast with this whole foot-washing/massage thing that he’s got going on…
I’m not sure where that leaves me, except nervous. Very, very nervous.
“That should do it,” he finally says, rinsing the last of the soap from my feet. He turns the water off, then spreads a thick blue towel on the ground in front of the tub. “Swing your feet around and we’ll see about getting them dried off and bandaged up.”
“I can—” My voice breaks, to my utter mortification. Determined not to let it happen again, I clear my throat way more than necessary before I try a second time. “I can take it from here.”
“It’s no big deal.” He’s on his feet, opening up the medicine cabinet to the left of the sink. “I’ve got everything right here.”
I can see he’s not exaggerating as he pulls down hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and a wide assortment of gauze, tape, and bandages. “Do you do double duty as an ER nurse?” I ask as he spreads everything out on the counter. “Or a serial killer?”
Miles just laughs. “Since Ethan and Chloe took two of the cars with them up to San Francisco, I’ve set up a workshop in the last couple of garage bays. But there’s been a lot of trial and error with the project I’m working on, and I’ve cut myself more than a few times.”
“What are you working on right now?” I ask, because I’m totally curious and have been for a while. I know he brought his idea to Ethan instead of running with it in his own family’s company—he walked away from his parents and his work there without a backward glance, Chloe told me when she was trying to talk me around to giving her brother another shot.
I always figured he had an ulterior motive—like he needed Ethan’s money or Ethan’s fabulous brain in order to make his latest idea work. But Chloe swears it’s the other way around, that Miles’s project is going to take Frost Industries to the next level.
He pauses for a second, like he’s thinking about whether or not he should tell me. But he must figure out that I’ve got no one to tell—my family made their money the old-school way, in textiles and steel, not technology—because he says, “I’m working on a new technology, and a much easier, more economical process, for desalinization.”
“Desalinization?” I repeat, a little disappointed after all the buildup. With the state of the California drought being what it is, everyone and their brother is working on a way to make ocean water potable. No one’s come close, though, at least not that I’m aware of.
“No need to look so enthusiastic.” Miles gathers some supplies and carries them back to me before sinking onto his haunches at my feet.
“Sorry. It’s just, Chloe and Ethan have made it sound like such a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. Making salt water drinkable is a game changer.”
“Yeah, but only if you can actually do it on a mass level.”
“Oh, I can do it,” he tells me as he pours peroxide on my cut. It burns, but I refuse to flinch. I look pathetic enough today without adding wimpy to the bargain. “But right now it costs too much. I’m trying to make the process cheaper, and for that I need to invent a different kind of filter.”
He holds up his hands for my inspection, and for the first time I see the fine scratches and scars running along his fingers and down his palms. “Hence the injuries from trial and error.”
He doesn’t volunteer anything else about his work, and I don’t ask. Partly because I don’t want to pry and partly because he’s decided my cut needs a butterfly bandage and it hurts like hell as he squeezes the skin on either side of my wound together.
Finally, after what feels like forever, he sits back and I yank my now throbbing foot away from him with only the barest hint of a whimper. He grimaces in sympathy, then gathers up the trash and tosses it in the wastepaper basket next to the sink. But when I start to get up, he stops me with a warning look.
“I didn’t do all that just for you to rip everything back open,” he says as he quickly gathers up the supplies and puts them away. Then he bends down and picks me up like I weigh absolutely nothing. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the easy way he carries me around makes me rethink my whole stance on nerdy engineers…
“Which room are you taking?” he asks as he carries me back through his room and out into the main hallway.
“The gray room,” I answer, naming the one that’s farthest away from him. It’s one of the smaller guest rooms in the house, but I don’t care about that. I just figure the farther away from him I am, the less chance I have of irritating him—which could then lead to him kicking me out. Just because he took care of my foot doesn’t mean things are all glitter and roses between us. And since I don’t even own a pair of shoes at the moment, I don’t think I’ll get very far if I have to leave.
I don’t know if Miles has figured out what I’m thinking, but instead of heading down the hall to the wing where the gray room is, he only takes a few steps before turning into a room two doors down from his.
I recognize the room immediately from its bright-turquoise-and-purple duvet and pillows. Not to mention the Picasso sketches on the wall. This is the room I’ve taken every other time I’ve spent the night—including when I hung out here for two weeks to help Chloe after Violet was born.
As Miles carries me across the boldly decorated room, I can’t help wondering if he chose this room on purpose. If he knows that this is the room I usually stay in, or if it’s just a coincidence that we’ve ended up here. His face, with its firm jaw and piercingly blue eyes, isn’t giving anything away. And neither is the still surprisingly gentle way he’s holding me.
I figure he’ll carry me to the bed, but instead he puts me down on the love seat inside the big bay window. I’m expecting that he’ll run away now that he’s done way more than his duty, and I start to thank him for all his help. But he just shoots me an annoyed look as he moves to the bed and starts taking off the throw pillows and turning down the covers.
Watching him gives me a lump in my throat. Which is stupid, I know, but other than maids at hotels, no one has ever turned the covers down for me in my whole life. Not my parents, not any of the guys I’ve been with, not even a babysitter or nanny when I was little. And here’s this guy who doesn’t even like me, who sure as hell doesn’t want me here, doing it like it’s the easiest, most normal thing in the world.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to think about that, or how I’m supposed to feel. Especially once he starts testing out each of the pillows until he finds one firm enough to put about two-thirds of the way down the bed. I assume it’s there for me to rest my hurt foot on.