Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins

down and ran into the den. Angie lunged and Ian tackled her, managing to grab her collar. “No, girl! Stay! Callie, open the sliders, for God’s sake!”

      I power-crawled across the floor and opened the sliders that led to the deck. Angie was whining, trying to get away from Ian, who was half lying across her. From in the den came some more crashing and turkey growls.

      “Here, turkey, turkey, turkey,” I called. Laughter wriggled dangerously in my stomach.

      Goooorr … gooorrr … “Go in there and flush it out,” Ian said.

      “Yeah, right,” I snorted. “I’m not going in there. You go.” Goooorr …

      “I’m holding the dog.”

      “Well, I’ll hold the dog, then,” I said, crawling over to Ian and Angie. “I’m not going in there. It’s a man job. Testosterone required. Besides, it might peck me.”

      “It should peck you. You’re the one who hit it,” Ian muttered, but once I had the dog by her collar, he stood up. “Don’t let go of Angie,” he warned.

      “Yes, Doctor,” I said. “Now good luck in there. I’ll take a drumstick.” A wheezing laugh burst out of me.

      “Great,” Ian muttered, giving me a look. He went in, and Angie wagged her tail, wishing her master luck. I waited, burying my face in Angie’s silky fur. One … two … three …

       “Gloogloogloogloo!”

      “Watch out, here it comes!” Ian yelled.

      The bird came sprinting out, wings flapping, and Angie lunged again, barking for all she was worth. I caught a glimpse of hideous bird legs, felt the wind from its wings and couldn’t help but shrieking. “Ian! Get it out of here!”

      “Easy for you to say!” he called, scrambling after the bird.

      Then the bird must have finally smelled freedom, because it turned its ugly head, spotted the great outdoors and sprinted through the front door, down the porch steps. I heard Bowie’s explosion of barking. “Is it safe?” I called after a minute.

      “Yes,” Ian answered, so I let his dog go. She immediately began sniffing all the good turkey smells. I hoisted myself onto my feet.

      Ian stood in the great room, breathing hard. I went over and stood next to him.

      “I don’t think it’s dead after all,” I said. Ian cut his gaze to me, and I doubled over with laughter, clutching the doorframe.

      “Very funny,” he said drily. “Why don’t you let Bowie out of the car? He can go in the backyard with Angie. It’s fenced in.” He turned and went into the kitchen.

      I obeyed, still laughing. “I’m sorry you missed all the fun, Bowie,” I giggled, unclipping my dog. “But now you can play in the back with Angie, how’s that?” I followed my dog inside, and the smile slid off my face.

      Ian’s house, his perfectly ordered, beautifully furnished house, was a wreck. Two tables were overturned, a vase or wineglass or something had broken, and shards of glass lay in a puddle. Feathers littered the floor here and there. A few books and a picture or two had fallen from the bookcase. The kitchen table was askew, and one of the chairs had tipped. A glimpse into the den showed similar damage.

      Angie was already in the backyard, so I ushered my dog through the slider, then closed it behind me. “I’ll clean up, Ian,” I said, biting my lip as I surveyed the wreckage. Several envelopes were scattered about, and I picked them up. Interspersed with the expected phone bill and such were a few other addresses … Heifer International, Doctors Without Borders, Hole in the Wall Gang. “Pledge week?” I asked, setting them down.

      “Guilt,” he answered. He was rolling up his sleeve. His bloody sleeve.

      “Ian, you’re cut!” I exclaimed, leaping over to him.

      “Yes,” he said.

      “What happened? Was it the turkey?”

      “No,” he answered, glancing at me. “I caught it on the edge of the bookcase.”

      I took his wrist and turned it so I could see. It wasn’t too bad, a long scratch, but it was bleeding a fair amount.

      “Where’s your first-aid kit?” I asked.

      “I can do it,” he said.

      It suddenly occurred to me that I was standing close enough to him to feel his warmth. That he was wearing jeans and a white oxford. That his lashes were long and straight and somehow tender. That he was looking at me steadily, and that even though he could probably clean up this cut in a New York minute, I really, really wanted to take care of him.

      “I insist,” I said, my voice a little husky.

      Ian reached for a paper towel and held it against his forearm. “In there, then,” he said, nodding to a cabinet.

      There it was, a blue plastic case, neatly labeled First Aid. I took it out and looked at the patient. He was leaning against the counter, still holding the paper towel against his arm. Watching me. Intently.

      My knees started to tingle. Face felt warm. Girl parts on the alert.

      I opened the first-aid kit, which contained a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a roll of gauze, some ointment, Band-Aids, the usual. “So,” I said, then cleared my throat. “Um, let’s wash it off, okay?”

      “Okay,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice.

      I took his hand—it was such a good hand, big and strong and capable, just like you’d want a vet’s hand to be. And holding his hand meant I was close to him, which was definitely having an effect on me. My heart thudded harder as I turned on the water and held his arm under it, our sides pressed together. He felt awfully wonderful, all warm and big and … Focus, Callie. First aid, remember?

      Yes. Well. The bleeding had stopped … it really was just a scratch, but you know what? I was going to take good care of that scratch.

      Ian didn’t talk as I poured some hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, patted the scratch, then blotted his arm dry. It was disconcerting, being so close to him that I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. His forearm was perfect, muscled and tan, sprinkled with blond hair, the tendons moving under his smooth skin as he moved his hand.

      “I’ll just … um … just put on a little of this … gooey stuff … how’s that?” I asked, reaching for the … gooey stuff.

      “Sounds good,” he said.

      I sneaked a peek at his face. There was a hint of a smile in those blue eyes, and I looked down quickly, feeling my cheeks prickle with a telltale blush.

      Still holding his hand, I smeared some bacitracin (that was the name!) on his cut, running my forefinger from just above his wrist to his elbow. The skin was perfect, the muscles solid beneath. Lovely. The inside of his elbow was soft and tender by comparison, and I ran my finger across the skin there.

      Realizing my first-aid application had morphed into vet-fondling, I yanked back my hand and groped for the roll of gauze. It was either use the gauze or use about nine Band-Aids, because the scratch was pretty long. But my hands were clumsy, and it was harder than it should’ve been. I wrapped his arm up firmly, then began tying the gauze ends in a knot.

      “That’s a little tight,” Ian said. I looked up. His mouth pulled up in the corner, and he held out his hand, which was turning quite red, the veins in his wrist starting to bulge.

      “Sorry!” I said, hastily untying the knot and unwrapping the bandage. “Okay. Ian’s boo-boo, take two.”

      This time, the gauze was too loose and kept slipping down. Plus, it was a little soggy from overapplication of the gooey stuff, so I grabbed a Band-Aid, tore it open and used it to hold the gauze in place. Added another one.