Page 45 of Every Broken Piece
I can hear deep breathing. I can feel warmth wrapped around my good hand. I think I’ve woken up to this before, but the cycles of waking and sleeping are a blur.
I open my eyes slowly, then slam them shut. The bright fluorescent of the overhead light is like a dagger to my brain. A small whimper escapes me.
“Hold on.” The words are growled softly but with intent. I’ve heard this voice before, in either that dream or memory of the man with the blue eyes. The presence moves away. I hear a soft click, then it’s back, my hand reclaimed and gently squeezed.
“The lights are off, Spitfire. You can open your eyes now.”
I squeeze the fingers afraid to open my eyes again. Not trusting.
“I promise they’re off. Open those beautiful eyes for me, Tess.”
It takes me awhile but eventually I try again. He’s right. The lights are off, dousing the room in shadows, and I breathe out a relieved, pain free sigh.
I focus on the ceiling for a few blinks before lowering my gaze to the big, masculine hand covering mine.
Blunt fingers, short, clean nails. Veins indicating strength. A large, solid gold watch on a thick wrist.
My gaze travels up the wrist, up a strong forearm, past the folded cuffs of a white dress shirt, over the outline of solid muscles, a bicep that looks like it was sculpted from stone, a rounded shoulder, thick neck, dark beard liberally sprinkled with gray surrounding beautifully shaped lips.
By the time I get to the sapphire blue eyes I’m breathless and not from pain.
I’ve never seen this man before, but I know who he is.
I know him.
Why is he here? Am I dreaming again?
His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “Hello, Tess.”
I lick dry lips but my tongue, just as dry, is stuck to the roof of my mouth. Keeping a firm hold on my hand, he reaches to the side with his other hand, his dress shirt stretching across an equally sculpted chest. He returns with a cup with a straw.
“Drink.” It’s more command than request. I comply because I’m parched, and I don’t know what to say to this man who I’ve only ever texted and emailed.
When I drink my fill, he pulls the cup away and places it out of my sight, still without letting go of my hand.
As he settles back into his chair, intent, direct, blue eyes pin me in place. Does he realize his thumb is casually brushing across my wrist? I concentrate on the feel of his thumb, on the warmth of his hand. When was the last time someone offered me the comfort of their touch?
“You didn’t check in on Sunday morning to tell me you got home okay. I got worried.”
My head snaps toward him causing me to wince.
“Careful, Spitfire. You took a nasty bonk to the noggin.”
“Y-you flew all the way from Colorado because you were worried about me?” My voice is scratchy, weak.
He hesitates. Indecision and secrets cloud his expression. “I heard you were hurt.”
“So you flew to Ohio?”
“So I flew to Ohio.”
My eyes narrow but even that small movement hurts.
“You need more pain meds?”
“I don’t want pain meds.”
“Admirable, but not practical.”
