Page 41 of Twins for the Enemy

After she leaves, closing the door, I pull my clothes onto my lap. With my hand wrapped around the sweatpants and shirt that Kieran gave me, I remember the feeling of Kieran’s hand holding onto mine. It isn’t like they say in those paperback romances, where our hands fit perfectly. His hand is disproportionately larger than mine and much rougher, probably from rock climbing and woodworking. We’re a contradiction, but when he held onto me, I felt safe.

It’s terrifying because I know now that I’d never felt safe before.

And if I consider this safety, what the hell is wrong with me?

As I unfold my pants from the top of my pile, my shirt falls off the top. I look down at it from the height of the hospital bed. For someone who prides themselves on being self-sufficient, this sprain is going to be the death of me.

I lean my weight on my elbow as I lower myself to the floor, snatching my shirt back up. Getting back on the bed is going to be a much more complicated process that could involve a humiliating number of injuries, so I reach my hand up to pull down the rest of my clothes and sit on the floor like I’m a toddler who hasn’t quite conquered getting dressed.

I undo the lazy bow on my hospital gown that keeps me from flashing the whole hospital. I try to pull my arm out, but I’m sitting on part of the gown, so my arm becomes trapped halfway in and halfway out of the sleeve.

I wonder if anyone has ever written a Cinderella story where Cinderella leaves a grippy sock behind at the hospital for the prince to match to her feet. After all,who couldn’t fall in love with a woman struggling to get off a piece of clothing that’s less than a potato sack?

The door swings open. Kieran slips in, infuriatingly graceful for such a towering man.

He appears more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him—his hair sticking in different directions, shadows under his eyes, and a fidgety energy to him.

But then I remember what I look like—a t-rex arm, dangling uselessly in a half-opened hospital gown—and I concede that he looks like Prince Charming. He’s just one who isn’t looking for a match to a hospital sock.

I expect a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic comment, but surprise and concern flood his features and he quickly strides over, kneeling down beside me.

A vague memory of him doing the same thing after I fell threatens to make me feel affection toward him.

“Did you fall?” he asks, his hand touching my arm that isn’t in a sleeve-related crisis.

“No, unfortunately, this was on purpose,” I sigh, flapping my trapped arm. “Don’t worry. I’m a professional at screw-ups. It makes me good at improvisation.”

“Is this you being good at improvisation?”

“I was just taking a breather.” I shrug, which only further shows how trapped my arm is. “Even the pros need a break once in a while.”

“You turned your hospital gown into a straitjacket. It’s fitting.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in the psych ward,” I say. “But I’m not surprised that you’re familiar with them.”

“Just let me help you.”

He offers me his hand, noble enough to offer it to my liberated hand. I reluctantly take it.

He pulls me up to my feet. As we’re face-to-face, he drapes my hand on his shoulder so I can steady myself. The back of the gownflutters open.

His hands brush dirt off the back of my thighs. My heart catches in my chest, but before I can think too much about it, he’s yanking the sleeve off of my trapped arm, letting the gown drop.

It’s dangling from my other shoulder now, but I’m still pressed against him, naked except for my underwear. It’s cold in the room and I should feel exposed, but I don’t. It’s that same sense of safety I’ve always felt around him, but there’s also a sense of taking all of the bad in my life and turning it into dust.

His arm grazes down my body as he leans down to grab my clothes. My hand moves up his arm to his shoulder to maintain my balance. As he stands back up, his arm finds its way back around my waist, as if a gravitational pull exists between us.

Our heads bow close to each other as he helps me to get one leg through the sweatpants. I lean against his chest while he widens the hole of the leg opening for the other side, getting it past the ankle brace. He has this newer spicy, warm fragrance on top of his usual earthy scent.

I could imagine he’d started wearing something scented for me, but that would be a dangerous road to go down.

He pulls the pants up to my waist, letting the elastic band give the smallest snap against my hips.

When I look at him, his eyes are filled with a burning desire that makes it hard to look at and even harder to look away.

How did I let it get to this point?

“The babies are fine,” I breathe.

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