Page 44 of Reaching Ryan

She belongs to Declan.

She always has, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t even want her.

Not like that.

Not anymore, but I want to want her.

Because wanting Tess is safe.

Because she doesn’t want me.

Because she never will, and somehow that rejection is safer than what could potentially happen with Grace if I let things go any further than they already have.

Potentially, Ranger?

Come on—there’snothing potential about it. Grace ain’t ever going to want you. Not once she sees the real you, so stick to your safe space and keep crying about it, you fucking pussy. And while you’re at it, leave her the fuck alone.

That’s the thought that pushes me out of bed. Puts my feet on the floor and forces me to stand. Clicking on the bedside lamp, I palm my cane and shuffle thump my way to the bathroom. Cranking on the water as hot as I can stand it, I peel off my clothes, muttering curses when I have to sit down on the toilet to take my jeans off like an old man.

Finally, naked and not very happy about it, I step into the shower for the second time today, hoping the hot, needle-like spray of water will force the last of Grace from my system.

I stand under it until the needles turn to ice but it never happens.

Using the safety rail because I will kill myself, promise to Tess be fucked, if I take a naked header into the tile and have to shout for help, I step out of the stall in time to catch the last of someone knocking on the door to my room.

Probably Kaitlyn, coming to tell me I missed dinner. She’s the only nurse around this place that doesn’t avoid me like the plague. “Fuck off,” I mutter, ripping a towel from its rod and use it abuse my wet hair.

Because she can’t take a hint, Kaitlyn knocks again.

Jesus Christ.

“Fuck. Off.” This time I shout it, not bothering to open the bathroom door. Instead of fucking off as instructed, the brave soul at my door pushes their way inside, their heated reply muffled by the door that’s still between us.

For fuck’s sake. Seriously?

Slinging a fresh towel around my waist, I rip the bathroom door open on a shout. “Are you fucking deaf,” I say, head down while I keep rubbing my hair dry. Whoever it is just standing there, staring at me, which is everyone’s initial reaction when they see me all or mostly naked for the first time. Their secondary reaction is usually marked cheerfulness, bordering on mania, like if they pretend not to notice them, my scars will cease to exist. My more honest victims run from the room. The person staring at me isn’t doing either of those things. I lift my head with a disgruntled sigh and pin my audience in place with a baleful glare. “I said fuc—”

It’s not Kaitlyn.

Not one of the other nurses who drew the short straw.

It’s Tess.

We stand here and stare at each other for a few seconds because neither of us know what to do next. She’s careful to keep her gaze on my face, like she’ll disintegrate on the spot if she looks any lower than my chin. Her three-fingered hold on the six-pack she smuggled in goes so lax I’m suddenly sure I’m going to have a mess to clean up if she doesn’t snap out of it and tighten her grip.

For some reason, it pisses me off like no other.

Dropping my arm, I toss the damp towel in my hand on the nearest chair. Then I just stare at her. Arms at my sides. Glare, hot and heavy, on her face, practically daring her to look at me.

All of me.

And then she does.

Her gaze dips lower. Skates over my bare chest. My slightly softened abs. The burn scars that snake and slither their way past the towel around my hips, licking at my stomach, reaching as far as my ribcage in some places. The deep, puckered that stretches the length of my forearm, from the underside of my wrist to the inside of my elbow.

And then even lower, to my left leg.

She swallows hard, face pale.

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