It takes me another second to realize what he’s offering. I nod and watch in dull silence as he takes my right hand by the wrist. His touch is light but secure as he moves the towelette along my palm, wiping down each finger individually before turning my hand over to inspect the back. The experience is oddly pleasant.

“Thank you.” My words are breathless. My hands are still shaking, my system coming down from the flood of adrenaline, but he doesn’t mention it.

Slowly, the blood fades from my hand. His blood, Jane’s . . .

“I saw his skull,” I say, thinking aloud.

Darcy pauses midwipe. “Seriously?”

I meet his eyes—goddamn, those lashes. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then his nose wrinkles. “Ew.”

I don’t know if it’s the unfiltered response or an extension of my still being rattled, but I snort out a chuckle that bubbles into legitimate, albeit faintly hysterical, laughter. Darcy’s eyes soften.

“Yeah.” My laughter tapers off. “ ‘Ew’ is right.”

Smiling faintly, he starts work on my other hand. The wet-nap is spent, his action doing little more than smearing, but I’m not about to say anything as he continues attending to my fingers.

He grips my fingertips, the rust-colored wipe between us as he rubs at the creases of my knuckles. “You have long fingers.”

I huff out another shaky laugh. “Runs in my family. My mom can palm a basketball.”

He turns my hand palm-up as he continues to clean/smear. I must have been off about his impatience earlier, because he is taking his time. “And the calluses?”

“I climb.”

“Rock climbing?” His surprise is clear in his voice.

Talking is easing the jitters, so I let myself prattle. “I’m from Colorado. I grew up doing it, and there’s a gym by our place in Park Slope.”

“Such varied interests you have.” He releases my hand. “Bennet of the Rocks and the Four of Clubs.”

The light comment catches me off guard, and I laugh, even while it’s tempered by the memory of the overheard dismissal. Though Charles did say the card made “quite the impression”—

Wait . . . Warmth twines through my ribs. I didn’t tell Darcy I go by Bennet . . .

They’ve been talking. About me.

“Thank you.” I hold up my semi-clean hands and look past them to survey Darcy a little more carefully. He’s wearing dark jeans and a slim-fitting plaid button-up in red and navy, sleeves rolled to expose his muscled forearms in that particularly appealing yes, please way. Something else about him seems more relaxed, too. His hair, maybe, the way it’s tousled but not styled, with a dusting of grays at his temples. He hasn’t shaved, either, and—I will myself not to lean in—are those grays in his stubble?

That would be . . . agreeable.