Quinn I (Undaunted Men #1) (12 page)

I steal a deep breath, trying to calm down. She's damn good at making me feel guilty for getting irritated with her. “Just start relaying to me what you're thinking and what your body is feeling, okay?” She nods her head in agreement.

I kneel back down by her feet and open my medical kit, searching for an alcohol swab. “Take off your other sock,” I instruct, and she quietly complies, knowing I’m on a mission, and I’m not messing around. She remains quiet as I carefully clean both of her blistered feet with the alcohol wipe.
Damn, damn, damn.
She’s got quite a few large ones on her heels and toes, and they look rather painful. Still slightly incensed, I shake my head in disappointment as I clean around her blisters. I'm trying like hell to bite my tongue and not add insult to injury by continuing to give her a hard time.

Once I have her feet dried off, I pull out my switchblade, and with the flick of my wrist, it pops open with a loud snap. She lets out a frightened squeal and speedily scoots back, pulling her feet out of harm’s way. Her eyes are wide with trepidation, and a grin escapes me.
She’s too damn cute
. I don't know how she's able to turn my emotions around so fast.

“What…what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to cut off your feet, woman. What the hell do you think I’m going to do?” I quip, but she doesn’t find my sense of humor amusing.
 

“My gosh!” she gushes, and I start to chuckle. She’s too easy to rile. I pull my lighter out of my pocket and start sterilizing the tip of my knife. “Quinn, this is not funny! You’re freaking me out.”

“Give me your feet before they get all dirty again,” I order through a wide grin.

“No!” She hugs her knees to her chest, not willing to give in.

I stopped sterilizing my knife and let out a sigh. “Lexi, do you honestly think I would hurt you?”

“Well…I don’t know. I mean, I just met you, you know. You could be some weird ax murderer just waiting for the right time to…” she trails off, waving her hand in the air, “…I don’t know, cut me into pieces, maybe.”
 

I roll my eyes at her silliness. “With a pocket knife?” Kimber nudges her nose against Lexi's shoulder as she forces her way into her personal space. “Okay, since my dog is apparently so protective of you, do you think Kimber would let me hurt you?”

She lovingly kisses Kimber on the snout and rubs her head. She’s instantly relaxed, and I’m left dumbfounded. Why the hell has my dog taken to her like this? It kind of makes me jealous.

“Now that you have your bodyguard, I’ve got to drain these blisters. If they bust while you’re hiking, and trust me they will, it will add more heat and moisture to your feet, and then they’ll hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Do you really want to get these infected on day one?” I ask seriously, arching a brow.

“No,” she pouts as she gives in, and then slowly lays her feet over top of my legs.
 

“I plan on barely nicking the blisters to drain the fluid, okay?”
 

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye as she nods her head, bracing herself for the upcoming pain and agony; it’s written all over her face. I give her a small, reassuring smile. “It’s not all that bad. I promise I’ll be careful.” Before I remove my eyes from her, I notice she holds onto Kimber a little tighter for moral support. I briefly close my eyes, praying for patience. I’m not used to having to put up with squeamish females.

I carefully nick one blister at a time with precision, making a perfect pinhole, and then I gently express the fluid. I had to drain her blisters since they were so large. I’d guarantee they would’ve ruptured less than sixty-seconds into the trail. Once I’ve drained all her blisters this way, I squeeze a dab of Super-glue under the tiny skin flap to seal it shut. I cut a hole in the center of the mole-skin tape, and then cover up her wounds, being careful of the hot-spots. To her credit, she had made no protest during the process. She'd silently watched the entire procedure with interest.

“All done,” I announce, patting her on the leg, and then I start cleaning up my mess. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

“No,” she mumbles under her breath, realizing how much she had overreacted. She sits up and places her hand over my forearm. “Thank you, Quinn.”
 

I stop what I’m doing and look at her. I mean
really
look at her. She’s got this innocence about her, and the way the light is playing on her natural features, she gives off this ethereal beauty. There is no way in hell she committed murder.

“You’re welcome.” I clear my throat and lean back, looking for her socks. I want nothing more than to kiss her again right now, which is really unlike me. I hastily grab her socks from the ground and take on the task of putting them on her. I then grab her boots, helping her into them, and then properly lace both her shoes to minimize foot movement, which is what caused her blisters in the first place.

When I’m done, I lean over her, resting my hands on either side of her legs, and stare intently into her brown eyes. She tenses for a second, probably thinking I'm going to scold her again. I make sure my tone is soft and full of concern as I tell her, “I want you to tell me if and when your feet start bothering you, okay? It's important to me to know how you're feeling.”

“I will, I promise. Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“How do you know all this?” she asks puzzled .

“I’ve been doing this backwoods shit my entire life, sweetheart. I just know it.” I lean in a little closer, inches from her lips, wanting to drive my point home. Her breath hitches as if I'm going to kiss her. “Your feet are always your number one priority. If your feet are miserable, then you’re miserable, and it only gets worse from there.” She nods her head in understanding. I think I've finally driven my point home. I back away and stand up to give her a helping hand up off the ground.
 

She takes my hand to stand up, and then she surprises the ever-loving Hell out of me by wrapping her arms tightly around my waist, giving me a sincere hug. I stand awkwardly for a second as she snuggles her face into my neck, and then I give in. I close my eyes, letting my hands slide around to her backside, and close my eyes. She fits against my body like a glove, as if she was made just for me. I rest my cheek on her head, breathing her in, and gently stroke her back. When the hug lasts a little longer than one of gratitude, I ask her, “Hey, are you okay?”

She lifts her head and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek. “I think you were sent to help me by my guardian angel,” she softly confesses. I drop my chin to look down on her, and her eyes are glossed over. “I’ve had a rough couple of days. Well…catastrophic actually, and I didn’t know how I was going to get through last night all by myself.” She removes one of her arms from around me, using her ring finger to dab at the corner of her eye. She looks into my eyes with admiration. “Not only have you taken care of me, but you want to help guide me to my destination. You will never be able to comprehend how you’ve made me feel.”
 

Of all the things for her to say, I didn’t expect this. She appears so down-to-earth, sincere, grateful, and most of all, honest. Her words stir something deep within me. I caress the side of her face, her beautiful olive skin playing against the natural sunlight.
 

She’s so stunning, nothing like I had imagined her to be. There’s an interesting connection happening between us, and it kind of scares the shit out of me. I’m a little caught off guard about it and don’t know how to respond, so I kiss her forehead and reply, “It’s all good, Angel.”
 

Over the past couple days, I’m slowly figuring out this complex woman by bits and pieces. Despite her age, she comes off as young, innocent, and wholesome in a lot of ways. I would've thought with her exposure to what her family does for a living she would've been more street smart than she actually is, and from the short time I’ve spent with her, I noticed she can be easily influenced.

I’ve also noticed she can be a bit impulsive. Even though she had some decent supplies for this last minute journey, I don’t see her as the one who planned any of it. I view her as being a tad disorganized, and not one to think things through, hence the blisters on her feet.

Granted, she seems to be handling her hardships and adversities for the most part. Well, other than the nightmares she’s been having every night, but I’d say she copes rather well in the daytime hours. Maybe it’s all the distractions keeping her mind busy during the day.

I had to combine our sleeping bags last night to calm her down again. She woke up crying out Griffen’s name, and then she went all hostile, screaming some man’s name. I didn’t catch the name, and when I asked her about it, she shut down. I don’t know what to do for her when she wakes up that way, other than hold her, because she’s obviously not ready to talk about things.

After a few hours of hiking, I have to say I’m impressed. I hadn’t heard one word of complaint about her feet. She’s not the prissy whiner I imagined her to be, and she doesn’t seem to mind getting her hands dirty. “How are your feet holding up?” I ask loudly, projecting my voice a few yards ahead of me.

“I’m doing okay,” she calls out over her shoulder. I’ve had the distinct pleasure of hiking behind her fine ass most of the morning, but she hasn’t drank much water, and I don’t need her getting dehydrated.
 

“Hey, hold up a minute, okay?” I place the tips of my fingers on the inside edges of my mouth and whistle out to Kimber, letting her know I’ve stopped. I detach my canteen strap from my backpack as she turns around, watching me with interest. I unscrew the top and take a long drink. When I'm done, I hold my water out to her and she hesitates. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you thirsty?”
     

“Yeah, a little bit,” she says as she steps forward to take the canteen from my hand. I study her as she drinks a few small sips, thinking she’s not drinking nearly enough. When she’s done, she hands the canteen back to me and says, “Thank you.”
   

“You know you really should be drinking more water than you are.”
 

She holds up her palm, assuring me, “I'm good, really.” I give her a wary look, but drop the subject. I will have to keep track of her intake, and if I don't think she's taking in enough fluids, we will need to have a serious chat.

“How old are you?” I ask, tilting my head to the side. Even though I already know her age, I’m interested in how she responds, testing her honesty.
   

“How old do I look?” Both of her brows are raised in what I believe is a challenge.
 

I shake my head at her; this isn’t going to happen. “Uh-uh, that’s a trick question. I know I’m going to be damned either way. I like my question better.” Her lips twitch as she tries to stifle a laugh. “What? It’s true, and you know it,” I contend while grinning. “You women have some weird way of twisting shit all around in your head. You're always taking our words out of context, or worse, you create some hidden meaning behind the things we say, and then we men wind up in trouble and don’t even know what the hell we did. Fact is, our words are just that, words.”

She rubs at her forehead, probably wishing she’d never gotten me started. “Okay, fine. I’m twenty-seven,” she replies while studying my reaction. “What? What’s that look on your face mean?” she accuses, already condemning me for something I didn’t do.
 

I can’t help it. I start to chuckle. “I guess I forgot to add men’s facial expressions to the list.” She steps forward and playfully swats at my chest, and I let her. I’m enjoying seeing this side of her. Beats trying to calm her in the middle of the night.

“Are you trying to tell me voice inflection and facial expressions don’t convey feelings or emotions?”

“No, I'm not. What I’m trying to say is you females always misconstrue those very things, and then twist them all around, making us out to be the bad guy every time.”
 

“Well, with the crew of Italians I grew up with—”
 

She stops talking, catching herself from sharing too much about herself.

I tilt my head to the side in question. “What were you going to say?”
 

“Nothing,” she quickly responds, waving me off, and I give her a look that screams
bullshit.
She lets out a long-winded sigh, and then relents. “Oh, all right, I was just going to say with the family and friends I grew up with, one had to be thick-skinned in order to survive. Otherwise, I’d be running to my room in tears all day long.” Then she waggles her finger at me. “Don’t take that the wrong way, though. I love my family.”

“I’m sure you do.” I gently grab her hands, holding them in mine, and then step into her personal space. “Tell me something.”

“I’ll try,” she replies nervously.

“How is it that a young, beautiful lady such as yourself isn’t married by now?”

“I could ask the same about you.”

“I’m not a young, beautiful lady,” I retort, my lips twitching with mirth.

“Oh, you’re a natural comedian, aren’t you?”