?<strong>Chapter 161:</strong>


    Kristopher, d in nothing but a damp white shirt that clung to him like a second skin, revealing the sculpted contours of his muscles, raised a sharp brow. His voice carried an edge of annoyance. “Who were you expecting?”


    Before the tension could escte, Oliver stepped forward, filling the doorway like an unwee referee. “Mrs. Norris, Mr. Norris was struck by a falling branch and needed ointment for his injuries.”


    Carrie’s gaze flicked to the traces of mud smeared on Kristopher’s shoulder, her lips pressing into a thin line. Without a word, she turned and went to retrieve the ointment, her movements clipped and purposeful. Kristopher followed her inside uninvited.


    Her steps faltered briefly as she nced back at him. Since he was already inside, there was little point in protesting further. She just wanted him patched up and gone.


    “I’ll fetch the report from Mr. Gray,” Oliver announced from the doorway. Kristopher acknowledged him with a slight nod. Turning to Carrie, Oliver added, “Mrs. Norris, please attend to Mr. Norris,” before closing the door, leaving no room for her objection.


    Kristopher settled on the bed’s edge, his posture radiating an entitled expectation of service. His legs sprawled casually, suggesting he felt entirely at home in her space. Carrie refused to indulge his presumption.


    With deliberate precision, she tossed the ointment toward him. “You can reach your shoulder yourself,” she said curtly. Pulling up a chair, she positioned herself at a calcted distance, resuming her script review. She pretended he didn’t exist, her gaze fixed resolutely on the pages before her.


    A flicker of dissatisfaction crossed Kristopher’s prating eyes. His stern gaze remained locked on her as he slowly, methodically began unbuttoning his shirt — each movement calcted, each button a quiet statement of intent. Removing the shirt, he applied the ointment independently, his expression a canvas of barely concealed frustration.


    Peripherally, Carrie noticed his exposed shoulders and the lean muscture of his waist and arms. She quickly averted her gaze, privately chastising herself. There were countless attractive men in the world, she reminded herself.


    Allowing herself to be captivated by her soon-to-be ex-husband would be pathetically weak. Whether triggered by the relentless rain or Kristopher’s presence, an underlying irritation gnawed at her. She had left Bayview Vi intending to disentangle herself swiftly fromplicated rtionships, yet here she was, seemingly trapped in another intricate emotional web.


    “I can’t reach my back,” Kristopher announced abruptly, jolting Carrie from her thoughts. His cold expression challenged her, daring her to respond.


    Her gaze shifted, noting the injury extending from his shoulder down his back. Mixed with mud and previous ointment applications, the wound looked potentially problematic.


    “You didn’t clean it first?” she criticized. “With mud embedded like that, you’re risking infection rather than healing.”


    He opened his mouth, likely to argue, but her brisk movements silenced him. She was already fetching water from the dispenser, her irritation apparent at every step. The room fell silent, save for the rain outside.


    Carrie knelt by the bed, her hands moving deftly as she dabbed at his shoulder with gauze soaked in clean water. Her touch was light, almost clinical, yet it left a faint warmth trailing in its wake.


    .


    .


    .