Page 63 of Common Grounds

The leather seat squeaks as Mike shifts toward me. “I don’t think she’ll hate you if that’s what you’re worried about. The way she was looking at you outside would suggest she was trying not to swoon. I think you should get inside, get some meds, ice, and sleep. And then you should talk to her in the morning. Communication, bro. Solves a lot of problems.”

I shoot him an incredulous look. “What do you know about communication?”

He scoffs, offended. “I’m an excellent communicator. Now, get out of here. I’ll stop by the shop tomorrow.”

As much as I hate to admit it, he’s probably right. I open my door and carefully swing my legs out. I grab the edge of the door to heave myself up, and it doesn’t hurt as bad as I was expecting. This feels promising.

I close the door and wave to Mike as he pulls out into the street and disappears around the corner. I try to sigh, but expanding my chest brings the ache back to my ribs. “Shit,” I say sharply. Meds, ice, sleep. It seems like sound advice, so I pull open the door to my building and make my way upstairs.

Once inside my tiny apartment, I down some pain medicine and search for a bag of frozen peas or something. That’s what people use for bruises, isn’t it? But I don’t eat peas, so I don’t have any. I don’t think frozen broccoli has the same effect, and I’m pretty sure the food would be spoiled if I used it as an ice pack, so I grab a handful of ice and wrap it in a towel instead.

I strip down to my boxers and check out my side. It’s purpling already, but it doesn’t look too bad. I get settled on my bed and press the towel of ice against my skin. It almost immediately starts to get wet as the ice melts, but I don’t want to get up again, so I let it seep through the towel. I’ll leave it on for a few minutes and dump it before my sheets get soaked.

As soon as I’m finally comfortable, a knock sounds at my door. I freeze. Oh, shit. Is that asshole really pressing charges? Would the police come to my door that quickly? Am I about to be arrested?

The knock sounds again, more urgent this time, which springs me to action. I grab my jeans and throw them on, and then remember the towel of ice. Maybe if I hold it against my bruise, they’ll take pity on me and skip the handcuffs. Is that a thing that happens? I wouldn’t know.

I start to take a fortifying breath before opening the door, but then I remember it’s going to hurt to breathe deeply, so I stop myself. I press the ice to my side and try to look as innocent as possible as I pull the door open.

But it’s not the cops on the other side of the door. It’s Emery. Her black hair is falling over her shoulder, her dark eyes are wide, and she looks uncertain. She’s holding a six pack of beer in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other.

Her gaze travels down my face and over my bare torso, and she clears her throat. When she notices the ice I’m holding, she winces.

“Peas,” she says.

“What?”

“Peas,” she repeats, holding the plastic grocery bag out to me. “I think they’re better than ice. Less cold and wet.”

“You brought me peas?” I ask, pursing my lips against a smile. This might be the cutest thing a woman has ever done for me.

“Well, yeah. I didn’t know if you had any. Is that weird? I’m kind of new to this physically-defending-my-honor thing.”

I can’t fight the smile anymore. I let it spread wide across my face and thank my lucky stars I didn’t get punched in the jaw so I can still smile at my Emery.

My Emery.

Is she mine? She might not know it yet, but if she’s bringing me frozen peas after my very first bar fight—a fight about her, no less—she’s definitely going to be.

I remind myself to play it cool. She’s here, and I don’t want her to run away again. “I don’t have any peas, and I think you’re right. They are better. Though I’m pretty new to this, too.” I chuckle, but wince quickly as my side starts to hurt. “It’s not an experience I plan to repeat.”

Her face hardens again. A little crease appears between her eyebrows, and she looks fierce. It’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

“Yes. Good. I do not need you or anyone else to stand up to my slimy ex for me. I’ve handled him before, and I’ll handle him again.”

I try to reflect her seriousness. I really do. But I’m thrilled she’s here, and she’s so captivating, standing there. I fear my happiness is written all over my face. “Noted. Should I apologize for punching him?”

She tilts her head, considering. “Are you sorry?”

“Not particularly,” I say drily.

That’s when she lets a little smile escape, and I have to fight not to run my thumb over it.

“Good,” she says. “I’m not sorry either.”

Well, that solves one problem. I’m glad she doesn’t hate me after that primal display. Next problem: how to get her inside my apartment. I nod toward the beer in her other hand. “You brought beer, too?”

She shifts on her feet, uncertain again. “Oh. Yeah. I felt bad you didn’t get to finish yours, so…” She holds it out to me, and I take it in my free hand.

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