“Sit. Give me a minute to get the emergency kit.” His voice is tense as he guides my frame onto a surprisingly comfortable couch. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the cushion, wincing at the slightest movement of my hand against the towel.

Just as I relax, a prickling feeling, a flutter of knowledge, prompts me to open my eyes. When I do, Colin is staring from the doorway, watching me. A silent moment passes, my gaze held captive by his. I search for something witty to say, anything to break the tension, but he does it by walking to my side. Sliding down to sit next to me, he places the first-aid kit on the coffee table.

“Give me your hand,” he says softly.

It’s better if I don’t watch. There are only two viable outcomes to that visual: passing out or vomiting. I’m not sure which would be more embarrassing. A shiver spreads down my spine from the gentle caress of his fingers when he unwraps the towel, and assesses the wound.

“Charlie,” his tone forces my eyes to his, “you have a long, deep cut along your palm. You should go to the hospital for stitches.”

“No, no hospitals.” For many long ago reasons, the clinical antiseptic halls of a hospital nauseate me. “Please,” I beg him, “can’t you help me?”

He sighs as he leans down to look closely at my palm. “I’ll need to clean out the laceration to ensure it’s free of debris and to stave off infection. It will hurt.” His tenor gentles as he prepares me for the inevitable pain.

"I trust you.” His deep blue stare latches onto mine. “Please.”

Shaking his head, he silently admonishes my decision while searching for the materials needed in the first-aid kit. “Close your eyes,” he commands, leaving little room for argument.

“Yes, sir,” I tease, adding a mocking salute while leaning back against the couch. He can be so bossy sometimes. I watch out of my peripheral vision as his head dips down in front of me, studying the wound and dabbing it with the towel. Reaching for a small bottle, his shoulder blocks my view.

“Holy shit,” I hiss, trying to tear away from his grip. He clenches my wrist, pulling it so I can’t escape as the disinfectant burns into the gash. I groan as the sting subsides, rolling my head to catch his guarded gaze.

“I’m going to do it one more time.” His voice is pinched, as if he’s enduring the pain with me. He douses the wound with more torturous liquid and I mewl, but hold back the real expletive I would like to hurl at him. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count to ten. I only open them when the heat of his breath soothes the sting; he’s bent close, blowing tenderly.

“Better?” he whispers.

“Yes,” I breathe out.

Lifting my head from the back of the couch, he’s closer than I anticipate, our lips a whisper away. Neither of us moves, his gaze straying to my mouth as our breath mingles together sweetly. It’s an excruciating invitation to unite yet he doesn’t move.

His nearness, and the uncharacteristic desire raging through me for this man is paralyzing. I want him to kiss me. Badly. My heart thrums so fast it's become a hummingbird’s wing, the beats indecipherable. His hot breath warms my lips, heating my body in more ways than one and causes my stomach to flutter, the muscles constricting in an unfamiliar, yet delicious way.

Colin’s eyes flash to mine and back to my mouth, his tongue stroking his bottom lip, and it’s nearly my undoing. I stop breathing, waiting for him to move, almost begging him to. I’m drawn to this man: this powerful, strong, elusive man, and I want him to kiss me. Closing his eyes, he moves ever so slightly toward my mouth, inhaling deeply, breathing into me not once but twice. Two long, deep, intimate breaths.

“Colin.” Even to my own ears I hear the desire hanging in the word, yet I’m surprisingly not embarrassed.

“Charlie.” My name is a whisper on his lips, so close I can feel the sweet rush of breath when he speaks, “I can’t.”

What? I don’t understand. He drags his gaze away from me, his hands grabbing the butterfly bandages he laid out prior to cleaning the cut. And just like that the moment is over, my lips cold with the undeniable air of rejection. With deft fingers he closes the gash, setting four bandages along the jagged line in perfect congruity. He finishes by wrapping a white sterile bandage around the palm of my hand, keeping it firm but not too tight.

“You shouldn’t get your hand wet for a few days; let the wound begin to heal before you do. Re-bandage it tomorrow and look for signs of infection. If it’s inflamed, swollen or deep red, you need to go to the hospital.” I hear him, but I can’t answer. I’ve been repeating his decree over and over again, searching for the meaning: Charlie, I can’t.

“Charlie?” His voice is firm, compelling my eyes to seek out his.

“Why can’t you?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, Charlie. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Taking a deep breath, he looks to me with fierce eyes. “I have a difficult past. You deserve more than I can give you.”

“Shouldn’t I decide what I deserve? What I want?” I think he’s stopped breathing, and I wait for him to say something, the silence uncomfortable the longer it continues.

“I can’t,” he whispers finally.

I flush with anger: anger at myself for pursuing him when I know it’s a bad idea. And irrational anger with him for his ability to disregard the very clear invitation I just laid none too delicately at his feet—or more accurately, at his mouth. Is it possible I’m completely imagining the intense electricity that’s all-consuming when we’re together? Yet after a moment’s thought I know he couldn’t be more right. Colin isn’t the only one with a past that will prevent any sort of future.

A knock on the door breaks the unbearable tension as Evan pops in. “Rick Scott is waiting on line one.” He turns to me. “You okay, Charlie?” His smile is keen until he focuses on my face and then he glances at Colin.

“I’m fine,” I say scrambling to stand, flinching not-so-subtly when I use my injured hand to help myself up. I have a sudden need to flee, and escape Colin’s presence. With a last glance in his direction I stare into his eyes. They’ve darkened to mask any emotions present, a perfect poker face.

“I’ll leave you to your business.” My voice is more curt than intended. I soften it, warming to the sentiment. “Thank you for taking care of me. It was much nicer than a hospital visit.”

The only acknowledgement to my statement is his brusque nod, effectively dismissing me from his presence. Turning, I practically lunge for the door, knowing I’m not wanted. Colin McKenna doesn’t want me, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

FOUR

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I let you talk me into this,” I say, turning in front of the mirror in a dress Molly lent to me for the occasion. “This dress isn’t appropriate for the bedroom, let alone a cocktail reception for a presidential candidate. It’s indecent.”

It’s true. This plunging, black satin number leaves little room for my breasts and not much more anywhere else. I should have left my hair down for modesty, but it’s piled on top of my head in a loose knot.

Turning the corner, Molly gets her first look at me. “Shit. Tim will be panting when he sees you.”

“Then get me something else to wear. That’s the last thing I want to happen,” I say while rolling my eyes.

I’ve enjoyed my time at campaign headquarters. Sally and Molly are fun, and after working independently for such a long time it’s nice to have the camaraderie of a team. Tim, on the other hand, has presented a challenge. His invitation on my first day has transpired into an insistent appeal to dine with him at lunch daily, and sometimes a dinner invite, asking me out incessantly. He’s nice; Molly thinks he’s cute, but absolutely not for me.