Set Me Free by London Setterby Read Free Book Online Page B

of Owen’s bathtub with a sigh of relief at being off my knee.
    He handed me a washcloth and a bar of soap that smelled like allspice and nutmeg. “First thing is to rinse the blood off so we can take a look at it.”
    I took my shoes off and got my hurt leg into the tub, wincing. Rinsing the wound stung, but not enough to distract me from Owen standing a foot away. If I’d reached out my left arm, I could’ve touched him.
    But I wouldn’t, because he had a girlfriend and I had at least some instinct for self-preservation. Even if he did know how to cook.
    I snuck a glance up at him and was taken aback by the dark flush across his strong cheekbones and at the base of his throat. He was staring at the hem of my dress where it met my wet, soapy thighs. My stomach tightened in an immediate, visceral response.
    Tearing his gaze away from me, he stared instead at my espadrilles, which were lying on his bathmat. “Um…want some coffee? Think I might make a pot.”
    “I never turn down coffee.”
    “No wonder my mom likes you so much. Cream and sugar?”
    “Yes, please.”
    By the time he came back with two steaming mugs of coffee, I was sitting on the edge of the tub with my hurt leg stretching out to the floor. Owen handed me a coffee and set his own mug down on the sink. He pulled a roll of gauze and some surgical tape out of his medicine cabinet and sat down next to me on the edge of the tub, so close I could catch the sweet spicy scent of his soap again, but this time warmed by his skin.
    “It’s still bleeding,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to go get stitches?”
    “It’s slowed down a lot. Thank you, though.”
    He dabbed at the cut with an ointment-soaked gauze pad, wrapping his free hand around the back of my knee—a place that suddenly felt vulnerable and intimate.
    “You’re really good at this,” I said, then blushed again. “I mean…wounds.”
    His mouth crooked up, but he kept his gaze focused on my leg. “I do a lot of woodworking. Cut myself pretty good a couple times.”
    “That explains the scars on your hands.”
    This time, he met my eyes, his eyebrows rising. “Yes. Just glad I haven’t lost a finger yet. A lot of woodworkers do, eventually.”
    I shuddered. “How awful.”
    He shrugged and reached for some more gauze.
    “What kind of woodworking do you do?” I asked curiously, as he taped the gauze to my cut.
    “Well, for my business, I make arbors, pergolas, railings, that kind of thing. But at home, I make instruments.”
    “Instruments?”
    “Violins, mostly. Started a cello, but it’s slow-going.”
    “That is so cool,” I said, which made him laugh. “Seriously,” I insisted. “I’d love to see them.”
    “Really?”
    He’d finished taping up my cut now, but one of his hands was still resting on my shin.
    “Yes, really.” I’d seen plenty of painting studios, but I’d never seen a violin workshop. And…I didn’t want to leave yet, as selfish as that was. “Unless you’re busy? I don’t want to—”
    “No,” he said. “I’m done for the day, anyway. How’s the bandage feel?”
    “Good, thanks.” I moved my leg experimentally.
    Owen stood and offered me a hand up. My fingers vanished inside his callused palm. He had the hands of a manual laborer. It would have been hard to imagine him making something as delicate as a violin, if it weren’t for how gently he’d bandaged up my leg.
    I slid my shoes back on and followed Owen back into his living room. We crossed through a mudroom filled with L.L.Bean parkas and dog leashes and went into the gigantic garage I’d seen from outside. Violins in varying stages of completion lined the walls. Under the violins were rows of tools. The rest of the garage was filled with standing machinery, workbenches, and more instruments: an upright piano, an acoustic guitar, a viola.
    I realized my mouth was hanging open and shut it with a snap. “This is amazing.”
    “You like it?”
    I grinned up at him. He was