Page 33 of Unpacking Secrets

“I was afraid you might've passed out,” he said, his tone light.

Trying hard to swallow my humiliation, I waved my bandaged wrist while the other hand held the shirt tightly against my bare skin.

“I can’t unhook my . . ." I trailed off, wishing the floor would open up to swallow me.

Relief washed over his features. “Right. I can help with that.”

The reality of letting him assist hit me like a freight train, but it was too late to refuse.

I turned, inadvertently facing the mirror above the sink. A long moment stretched before he stepped closer, then our eyes met in the mirror, blue against hazel. As desperately as I wanted to look away, I couldn’t bring myself to break the connection.

When his knuckles brushed lightly against my skin, stroking over my spine, I sucked in a sharp breath. His gaze stayed locked on mine for another heartbeat, then he released the clasp and the spell was broken.

I swiftly turned back toward him, holding the shirt like a shield between us. Henry cleared his throat and took a step back.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he said, his gentle tone at direct odds with the intensity of his expression. “Goodnight, Juliet.”

“Goodnight, Henry.”

I waited until he was back in the living room before pulling the shirt over my head and limping to the bedroom as quickly as I could. Safe in the quiet room, I closed the door and leaned against it.

Simmer down, Jules.

The chill of the wood against the back of my neck did nothing to erase the memory of his fingers, the lingering trail of heat along that section of my spine. After my skin finally cooled, I pushed away from the door and eased down onto the bed.

Hopefully sleep would help redirect my errant thoughts. Even if the prospect of Henry peeking in to make sure I was breathing throughout the night gave wing to a riot of butterflies in my stomach, I trusted him.

And since his willingness to stay here had been the only thing that kept Libby from pushing the hospital angle, I owed him a debt of gratitude.

Whether from sheer exhaustion or the painkillers, I crashed so hard that I didn’t wake a single time during the night, even though I was sure Henry had obeyed his ex-wife’s orders to the letter.

Iawoketothearomaof coffee brewing and something else, something I hadn’t smelled since before my mother’s illness.

Holy shit, was he making pancakes out there?

Henry cooking in my kitchen filled me with conflicting emotions. I hadn’t been here long enough to make a huge mess, but the idea of him moving around in there, opening cupboards and pulling ingredients from my fridge, it felt strangely intimate. A certain warmth curled upward from my belly, wrapping around my insides.

For the first time in a long time, I felt almost pampered.

Then again, maybe he was bemoaning the pathetic state of my cupboards and trying to keep himself from starvation.

As I drew a deep breath, letting the inviting lure of pancakes bolster me, I turned my head to look at the clock on the bedside table. It was just past eight—for once, I'd slept through the rising sun sneaking past the curtains I had yet to replace.

Gingerly, I bent and straightened my knee a few times. It felt significantly better than the night before, even if it was a bit stiff. I moved slowly as I sat up at the edge of the bed, not willing to risk collapsing to the floor with bedhead.

Henry might be more of a gentleman than I'd given him credit for, but I could just imagine his expression if he saw me looking like Medusa when he had to rush to my rescue.

Again.

I grabbed my hairbrush off the bedside table, wrestled my hair up in a fresh ponytail without tweaking my wrist too badly, then stood—very carefully—and breathed a sigh of relief when no streak of pain shot through my leg. Curious, I pulled up the cuff of my pajama pants to inspect my knee. It was more of a dull twinge at this point, crowned by a remarkably ugly bruise radiating outward from the center of my kneecap.

Though I was determined to shower before putting on fresh clothes, I wasn’t willing to walk out into the kitchen to greet Henry wearing just a thin t-shirt without a bra. In the end, I grabbed the biggest, softest hoodie I could find and pulled it on over my pajamas. It would do for now, so I slipped quietly into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

When I caught sight of my face in the mirror, I grimaced. The cut on my forehead still looked gruesome beneath the butterfly bandages and my cheeks were hideously pale.

I stuck out my tongue at my reflection, but the memory of Henry’s expression in the mirror last night caused me to snap my mouth shut and turn away.

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