Page 105 of Bombshell

“We won’t set it on fire.”

I’m not sure if Sutton or Luca looks more disappointed about this.

“We’ll leave you kids alone,” Jack says, flashing a wide grin.

“How mad are you, exactly?” Sterling says, his grin slipping, as they leave. He shakes his head a little, like his thoughts are fuzzy.

“I think I’ll forgive you.” Honestly, I’m just glad he’s here in mostly one piece.

“Good, good,” he says, pulling me close to him and brushing a kiss on my lips.

It feels good. I try to kiss him back, but his head snaps back as he lets out a yelp. “Sorry, did I do something?”

“My cheek, it’s a little tender,” he says, leaning forward gingerly and pressing his lips to the curve of my neck, making me forget what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Hey, cut that out. Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, feigning his best southern accent.

I start digging through the first aid kit, looking for bandages and disinfectant, but I can’t find anything remotely like that. “What are these?” I ask, holding up what looks like a badly bent pair of scissors.

“Clamps,” he says simply.

“What are they even for?” I ask. The closest looking thing I’ve seen are eyelash curlers.

“Stopping arterial bleeding,” he says, letting out a chuckle that causes him to wince.

“Seriously? Where’s all the normal shit?”

“There are some butterfly sutures in the pocket next to the strap,” Sterling says, pointing.

It takes me a few minutes, but eventually I find antibiotic ointment, cotton swabs, and sutures. Sterling instructs me patiently, but I can’t help getting the feeling he’s drowsy. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Me?” he asks. “I’m fine. It’s just an adrenaline crash.”

I clean the cut over his eye with an alcohol swab, expecting him to wince in pain. But he looks stoic as I rub burning hot alcohol into his wound, then dab ointment into it with a swab. “What’s an adrenaline crash?”

“After your adrenaline spikes—I mean really spikes—”

“Such as when fighting an FBI agent in a downtown Nashville cafe?” I try to sound stern, but, honestly, I’m too relieved to have this behind us to stay angry at him for getting in a fight. He’s been building toward it all day.

“Yeah, after that, your body goes back to its normal equilibrium. It’s like going from Superman to just Clark Kent.”

“So you’re only a mere mortal now,” I say.

“Clark Kent is always Superman. Sometimes he just hides it.”

“So you’re saying, you still have superhuman stamina?”

“Only one way to find out.” He pulls me close, not mistaking what I meant. His lips are on mine, and without thinking I bring my hand to his face—right on top of the gash on his cheek I haven’t cleaned yet. He flinches hard, almost jumping out of his skin.

“Sorry,” I plead. I don’t think it’s totally my fault, but he probably doesn’t see it that way.

“Never be sorry, Lucky,” he says as I take care of his cheek just like I did his brow. His hands fiddle with the straps of my dress. “How was your day?”

I fill him in on the highlights, glossing over the worst of it. He’s got enough to worry about.

“You okay?” he asks when I finish.