"Are you cold?"
He dropped his forehead to her temple. "The opposite." His nose brushed her cheek as he lowered his head, and she emitted a full-body tingle. "Just the opposite," he repeated, his rough voice barely above a whisper.
Shaking his head, he shut off the faucet and reached for a paper towel. He dried her hands like she were a toddler in need of assistance, then held up her hand to examine it. Only a small half-inch knick on her outer palm, but it had created a lot of blood.
He pressed the paper towel to the cut and held it there. "It's not deep enough for stitches."
She nodded, recalling his initial response. "Does the sight of blood bother you?" Half her ranch hands passed out cold at the hint of red. It was a pretty common phobia and men could be babies.
"Not usually."
