“You’ll want to wash them,” he says. I bring my attention back to my hands. “But at least now you can go into a Starbucks without someone calling the police.”

I shrug. “It’s New York. As long as you keep bodily fluids to yourself, no one really minds. Though . . .” I wiggle my fingers with the same flourish I’d use after a glove peel. Darcy cocks his head slightly as he takes in the movement. “There might be an exception if the bodily fluids belong to someone else.”

He chuckles, his features lighting up. The sight makes my heart stutter. His dark eyes crinkle, and the sound of his almost-laugh, rich and light, registers deep in my belly. His smile highlights the fullness of his lower lip—How did I miss that feature the other night?—and lingers as his attention grazes my neckline. A heartbeat later, his eyes are back on mine. I thank ten-minutes-ago me for that quick tug of my dress: ooh la la, indeed.

“Should we see how Charles is holding up?” I ask.

Darcy’s smile turns wry. “I got him settled while the EMTs were working with Jane. Don’t give him a hard time?” he requests. “I’m sure he’s mortified. He’s always had an issue with blood.”

“Oh.” The care for his friend’s feelings is touching, even if it stings he thinks I would jab Charles about fainting. “Sure.”

We find Charles seated on a bench. He gives a weak smile as we approach. “Sorry. Blood.” He looses a long breath that puffs out his cheeks. “I can’t do it.”

He rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to shed what he saw, and gives himself a little shake. “Jane’s been taken to a hospital?” He directs the question to me.

“Beth Israel. Stitches or staples, maybe, but he’s going to be fine.”

He brightens. “And you, Bennet! Really impressive. You were right in there. Amazing. Wasn’t it amazing, Darcy?”

Darcy opens his mouth to respond—

“Incredible,” Charles continues. “Have you done anything like that before?”

“No,” I admit, though I would have appreciated getting Darcy’s thoughts, thank you, Chatty Charlie. “And I hope never to again.”

“You were totally running things,” he insists.

“Fake it ’til you make it.”

Charles laughs, and I glance at Darcy. His half smile is almost as earth-shattering as the full one. My gaze drops to his lower lip.

“Can we do anything for you?” Charles asks.

“No, but thank you. Darcy already helped with my hands.” I hold them up. “Made me look less murder-y.”

Charles stares at my upraised palms, then quickly averts his eyes. I remember the traces of blood left in the creases and clasp my hands behind my back as a courtesy.

“Thanks again for the wipe-down,” I tell Darcy.

“It was the least I could do,” he sniffs. “After you shot down my offer to sew Jane up myself.”