I squirm in his grasp. “I’m still itchy.”
He glances down at my neck and chest. “Be patient and let the Benadryl work,” he says.
“I’m not a patient person.” I moan in frustration.
“I know.” He releases my hands. “Here, let me help. You’ve already done enough damage . . . there’s scratch marks all over your neck. People are gonna think someone assaulted you.”
“The only thing to alleviate an itch is to scratch it.”
“Yeah, and the only thing to make your skin more irritated is to rake it with your damn nails. If you promise to stay still, I’ll help you.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Keep your hands to your side and trust me.”
Trust. There’s that ugly word again. “Seriously, my skin itches. You wouldn’t understand because you’re not having an allergic reaction to purple frosting.”
“Shh.
