He rose, standing so my eyes were level with his chest. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding,” he said softly, his thumb brushing my cheek and coming away red.

Ah, so that was the wetness.

“I’m okay. I can wash up.” At least my mouth was working again. I turned to head toward my steps, but my knees went all wobbly.

“Yeah, no.” Jackson lifted me, putting one arm behind my back and the other behind my knees. “I’ve got you.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked as my hand trembled. Was this an anxiety attack? They’d never presented like this before.

“Adrenaline rush. It has nowhere to go,” he explained as he carried me across my yard, passing the small gathering of construction crewmembers. “It’ll pass in a few minutes, maybe a little longer.”

“I can clean my face,” I protested as he reached his driveway.

“Morgan, you just saved my daughter’s life. Could you please just let me help you?” he snapped.

I studied his face as he climbed his stairs. His jaw flexed, his lips pressed into a line, and in his eyes, there was a wildness—fear. Of course he’d been afraid. He’d nearly lost Finley.

All because I’d taken her to the house when Steve told me they’d finished for the day. I’d nearly gotten Fin killed.

The inside of his home wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. Not that I even knew what to expect from Jackson. The decorations were simple, clean, a blend of coastal blues and rich wood tones with white accents. The walls were decorated with framed artwork I assumed was made by Finley.

He carried me through the living room and into the kitchen, setting me carefully on the granite counter near the sink.

I yelped as the icy stone came into contact with my sun-warmed skin.

“What hurts?” he asked immediately, scanning me like he could see through my clothes and skin.

“Nothing. Granite’s cold,” I muttered, bracing my hands on the edge of the counter.

“Oh. Okay. Sorry about that. Wait here.”

He disappeared, and I studied his kitchen. It was U-shaped, the opening facing the living room. A long slab of granite to the left served as a breakfast bar. A small dining set filled the space to the sliding glass door, and off to the side, a play nook was happily cluttered with toys in contrast to the immaculately clean kitchen.

Does he keep his bedroom this clean, too?

I blinked that thought right out of my head. God, was this trembling going to stop anytime soon?

He returned, set a first-aid kit on the counter, then wrapped a soft quilt around my shoulders, his arms encircling me for the barest of moments. “That should help,” he said softly.

“Thank you.” I tucked the blanket closer.