Page 11 of Two Risks I'd Never Take Again

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” I parked in front of the doughnut shop. Inside, I grabbed a sheet of paper from the supply room. I knew what I wanted to do; I just wasn’t sure what to write on the sign.

With my eyes squeezed closed, I forced my brain to focus. Then I scribbled on the page.

On vacation this week. Sorry for the inconvenience.

I taped it to the front window, then locked the store. For the first time since Skeeter had called off our wedding, I closed my shop.

Before I even started the engine, Garrett spoke. “Don’t close. I never intended for you to do all this, and I can’t let you—”

I put my hand up, then waggled a finger in his face. “Let me? I am capable of making my own decisions. Thank you very much.”

His eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t say a word.

The hum of the engine was the only noise as I drove to my apartment.

“Let’s get you inside before someone sees you.” I opened his door and helped him out. “Once you’re settled, I’ll go get your prescription.”

He followed me down the walkway to my apartment door. “Sleep first.”

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep. After the doctor had warned that Garrett could potentially have a concussion, I worried that he’d go to sleep and never wake up. “Maybe.”

He moved at a snail’s pace, understandably.

When he headed toward the sofa, I grabbed his arm. “No. That won’t work. Eli or Delaney will show up when they see that the shop is closed. You can stretch out in my room.”

I piled the pillows and pulled back the covers.

As he moved toward the bed, I noticed the mud still caked in his hair. It would get all over the bed, and being dirty couldn’t possibly be comfortable. “Change of plans.”

He stopped in the middle of the room. “What?”

“I know I can’t get the bandages wet, but your hair is a mess. Hang on just a sec, while I think.”

Shaking his head, he glanced at the bathroom.

“I’m not giving you a shower. We’ll deal with that later.” Hopefully never.

His jeans rode low on his waist, and combined with the lack of a shirt, he made it hard to think clearly. Or at all. Would it be rude to pull his jeans up a little? Why hadn’t the nurse put on his belt?

“This is what we’re going to do. The kitchen sink has a spray nozzle.” I ran to the kitchen and set a chair in front of the sink. He was tall enough to sit in the chair with his head tilted back and be over the sink.

I hurried back to the bedroom. “Put your arm around me, and I’ll help you over there. “It’s probably good that you don’t have a shirt on.”

“Good for whom exactly?”

“Just sit and be quiet.” I tucked a throw pillow behind his back and a towel behind his neck so he wouldn’t hurt being in the chair. “Let me grab my shampoo.” As I walked to the bathroom, I gave myself a pep talk. Washing his hair wasn’t weird. That was a lie. It was very weird, but I’d do it anyway. He couldn’t sleep with mud flaking out of his hair, and I didn’t want mud all over my bed.

He tipped his head back as I walked toward the sink. “Am I going to smell like flowers?”

“More like mint chocolate chip ice cream.” I turned on the faucet and wet his hair, running my fingers through it to shake out the mud.

He closed his eyes and gave a contented sigh.

Now it was awkward.

I massaged in the shampoo, careful not to get it near his eyes or bandages, then made sure the water was warm and rinsed out the soap. With a dishtowel, I dried his hair a little. “That should feel at least a little better. You can’t shower until tomorrow.”

“Thank you. That felt nice.”

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