Page 15 of Spurred On

She looks through her arms and legs. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you would be home this early.”

“No, you’re okay. This is your space, too. Keep doing your thing.” Plus, I really don’t want her to stop.

I start walking again, my body feeling more stiff by the second. If she wasn’t here, I’d probably be crawling to the bathroom to get in the bath.

She moves from her position and sits cross-legged on the floor. “Are you hurt?” she asks. Genuine concern covers her face. Guess my walk gave it away.

“No, just a rough ride this weekend. And I didn’t really get a lot of sleep. I was working on the ranch today, dealing with cows and fixing one of the fence posts.” I don’t know why I’m rambling; she probably doesn’t give a shit.

Her brow crinkles. “You got up and worked this morning? I didn’t even hear you go in or out. I thought you were still on the road.”

Shaking my head, I reply, “Nope, I’ve been working,” I hike my thumb over my shoulder, pointing to the bathroom, “I’m going to go take a shower now.”

“Okay. I’ll be…” she looks around the room, “here.” Her delicate brow furrows as she says it, like she would have anywhere else to be. I can’t help but smile at her.

Once I get in the bathroom, I sit on the side of the tub. Pulling off all my clothes shouldn’t be this hard. A sharp pain slices through me as I raise my hands to pull my shirt over my head. I fight to hold in the grunt that wants to come out, biting my lip instead. Fuck, this is worse than I thought.

With my clothes in a messy pile next to the tub, I rinse off in the shower before filling up the tub. The water steams, letting me know it’s just the right temperature. Sinking into the water, I feel the warmth start to relieve some of the ache, but not nearly enough. I pushed myself too hard today and my body is going to be paying for it tonight.

Chapter 11

Ava

Worry starts to fill me when I haven’t heard a peep from the bathroom. His shower was short, but then it sounded like he filled up the tub and took a bath. That was over an hour ago.

I don’t want to be rude, but I also don’t want him to drown in a tub. I bite my lip as I think over what I should do. He won’t be mad at me, I know that, but I know he’s tired and probably needs some time. I’ll give it fifteen minutes, and if he doesn’t get out by then, I’m going to check on him.

My eyes check my phone again. It’s now six o'clock and I’m panicking. I hop off my little futon and head to the bathroom door. My knuckles tap against the door. “Mav, are you okay?”

I wait a few seconds and when he doesn’t answer, I knock again, much louder this time. “Mav, please answer me. Are you okay?” I ask, worry evident in my tone.

The water sloshes, and I feel myself sigh out a breath of relief. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, do you need to get in here? I’ll hurry and finish up.”

Leaning against the door, I say, “No, I was just worried about you. You’ve been in there almost two hours and I was starting to think you drowned.”

“There’s no way in hell I would let my tombstone read, ‘Drowned in bath.’ I just fell asleep, sweetheart. I’m fine. I’ll be out in a sec.”

Warmth fills my chest. Sweetheart. I should tell him to stop calling me that, but I like it. No one ever thinks I’m sweet. Uptight? Yes. Stressed out and overstimulated? Always. Which usually leads to me feeling a little crabby and tired.

I walk back to the futon and pretend like I’m not waiting for him to come out. I know he said he’s fine, but I need to see it with my own eyes before I can believe it.

When the door pops open and the steam billows out behind him, I find myself a little tongue-tied because there stands my husband in a towel. With water dripping over his very chiseled body. A body that isn’t built in a gym but by years and years of work. His abs slink down into that V above his pelvis. Good lord. Maybe I don’t give drunk me enough credit. She managed to bag herself one fine ass man.

“See something you like?” Mav teases, a smirk on his face. When his words finally register, I find heat filling my body for an entirely new reason. Damnit. He just caught me eye-fucking him. How the hell am I going to play this one off?

“Not particularly. It doesn’t look like you’re too injured from this side.” Yeah, we will play the nurse card and pretend I was assessing him for injury.

“Mhmm.” The way his lips tilt up lets me know he did not buy my story one bit. But it’s my lie, and I’m sticking by it.

When he turns to walk away, my breath catches. Across his back are large, long, very angry bruises. They stretch across him, starting at one shoulder blade and meeting with the other. There is another along the lumbar portion of his back. Holy shit.

I stumble off my futon, rushing to him to get a closer look. “Maverick, your back. What the hell happened?”

He peers over his shoulder as if trying to assess his back for himself. I’m shocked his ribs aren't broken with the color of those bruises. No wonder he is so stiff. “What?”

“You have huge bruises all over your back. They look awful.” My hands reach out to touch them, but I hesitate, not sure how he would like me touching his bare skin.

“Oh, that is probably from my ride on Saturday. It wasn’t good.” He says it so nonchalantly, like having blunt force trauma is normal. I guess for him, it probably is.

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