Page 47 of Some Saviors Can Break You

“Can't sleep, I need the bathroom,” she said, going to stand.

“I got you.” Preempting her standing, he scooped her into his arms and carried her through the apartment to her bathroomwhere he deposited her inside. “I’ll be waiting out here, call out when you're done.”

“Eli,” she said overly patiently. “I can't go with you standing out here listening, and I can walk, I only have a concussion.”

“I’ll go stand in the living room then,” he said, ignoring the part about her walking on her own. As long as he was here, she would be taking it easy even if he had to make her.

Florence rolled her eyes and closed the door behind him with a firm click.

To give her a little space, he walked out into the living room and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest while he waited. When he heard the bathroom door opening, he walked back into the hall and picked her up again. “I think you’d be more comfortable in bed than on the couch.”

“You’re a regular Mr. Mom aren’t you,” Florence grumbled, but she curled her arm around his neck and rested comfortably in his arms.

“The best,” he agreed cheerfully, he’d spent the last several years taking care of his dying mother, and caregiver was a role he was comfortable playing. “There you go,” he said, pulling back the covers, setting her down, and fluffing up her pillows against the headboard and covering her with the blanket. “Better?”

“Yeah, actually, it is.” She rested her head against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I can't remember the last time I spent the day in bed.”

“You need a day off, everyone does,” he added because he got the feeling she thought that taking time just for herself made her lazy. “I made soup, you hungry?”

“Actually, yeah, I am,” she said, opening her eyes to look at him. “The same chicken noodle soup I turned down last night?”

“The very same. I’ll be right back.” Giving her a quick kiss on the lips, he headed into the kitchen and ladled a couple of spoonfuls of the soup he’d made while she slept into a bowl.The bowl went on a tray he’d found in a cupboard in Florence’s kitchen, he added a couple of slices of bread, a glass of water, a couple of painkillers for after she’d gotten some food in her stomach, and flowers in a vase.

Carrying the tray into Florence’s room, her eyes grew wide when she saw it. “You didn't have to go to that much trouble.”

“It was no trouble,” he said, setting the tray on her lap.

“The soup would have been enough, but this looks like homemade bread, and the flowers are beautiful.” Tears welled in her eyes, drops balancing on her thick lashes. “Sorry,” she said, brushing them away, her gaze falling to the covers. “Must be the concussion making me emotional.”

“Hey.” He hooked a finger under her chin and forced her to look up at him. “I don’t care if you're emotional. Iwantyou to be emotional, this is a safe place, I care about you.” He touched the pad of his thumb to her cheek and caught a lone teardrop that had escaped. “I'm here for you, I'm not going anywhere, you can tell me anything, you can let your guard down around me. It’s going to be okay, Florence.”

“Okay,” she whispered, giving him a shaky smile. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for being here. This is where I want to be. Here, with you.” To emphasize his point, he lowered his mouth and gently claimed hers. The kiss was soft, sweet, tender, and he felt its ramifications deep down into his bones. “I want to be with you, sweetheart,” he murmured against her lips.

“You’re almost too good to be true,” she murmured back.

“No such thing, princess. And just so you know I didn't make the bread for you, didn't have time, had my driver go and pick up some I had at my hotel, can't eat store bought bread anymore,” he teased to lighten the mood. Florence laughed like he had hoped she would. “Here, eat up.” Eli straightened and picked up the spoon, if he didn't put a little distance between them hewould do a whole lot more than just kiss her, and Florence was in no shape for that today.

“I can feed myself,” Florence said, reaching for the spoon.

“I want to do it. Besides your hand is shaking, you’ll probably spill soup all over these pretty lavender sheets.”

She looked down, surprised that her hand was trembling, then looked up at him. Her sky blue eyes seemed to stare right through him, down into his soul, seeking an answer to a question she didn't want to ask aloud. Apparently, she received the answer she sought because she gave a nod.

Treasuring that second step of trust she’d just taken, Eli smiled as he dipped the spoon into the soup and raised it to her mouth. Florence parted her lips and took the soup, her eyes widening as it hit her tongue.

“That is amazing,” she gushed. “Did you make that yourself?”

“Yep, the recipe was passed down from my great-grandmother to my grandmother to my mother and then to me. I think my mom always wished she had a girl to cook and bake with her in the kitchen because neither my brother nor I were very interested in cooking.”

“When did that change?” she asked after she took another mouthful of soup.

“When she got sick the first time. She was always weak from the chemo, she couldn’t get up and cook, and she was nauseous all the time, this soup was the only thing she could eat for months. When she got really sick she would sit in bed, just like you are now, and I would feed it to her.” He smiled at the memory, those were about the last moments he’d shared with his mother before she got too sick and was transferred to palliative care.

“That’s how you learned to feed someone so well, you haven't spilled a drop.”

“That, and feeding my nephew.”

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