Page 32 of Fighting For You
His eyes dropped to my shirt, then my legs, and—oh.I crossed my arms over my chest.Where is my bra?Where are my clothes?
“Your clothes are clean—I washed them. Didn’t see anything I wouldn’t have at a pool. I’m not holding you hostage here, but the roads are still impassible, especially in your little nonsense car.”
I groaned. “Oh, you are still yourself, aren’t you? My car is perfectly capable of making it back to Silverton. It may be old, but I’ve taken good care of it.”
“I’m sure you have. But it’s two-wheel drive, isn’t it?”
I didn’t give him a response because he was being rudeand rude people didn’t get responses, especially when my energy was flagginghard.
He seemed to register this the minute I thought it, and he moved freakishly fast into my space and cupped a hand around the back of my head, angling my chin up so he could look in my eyes. With his other go-go-Gadget-long arm, he reached for the thermometer and swiped it across my head. When the readout showed a normal temp, his shoulders relaxed enough I could see the visible change.
“I’m not trying to be a jerk. You can’t go anywhere because the roads are impassible, even for my truck. We’re stuck here another while until they get plows up higher. I know that’s not news you want to hear.”
His face was shadowed, his beard even more unruly than when I’d arrived.
I didn’t know what I wanted to hear. I’d been living in an alternate universe the last day or so and I couldn’t tell which way was up.
“I’m sorry, too.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
So we sat there, me hunched over with my arms crossed now. I’d realized I wasn’t wearing anything underneath his giant shirt and the boxer briefs I vaguely remembered pulling on after the horrid cold bath from hell.
“Your clothes are on the dresser.” He nodded toward the pretty maple dresser on the wall in front of the bed. “Do whatever you wantslowly, and then I can bring you some breakfast. We need to get some fuel in you, and hopefully, that’ll help with the shakiness.”
After an embarrassingly slow time pulling on my own clothes and wishing I’d worn sweatpants here instead of jeans, I emerged from the bedroom refusing to think about the fact he’d washed, dried, and folded my clothes.
It was so personal—intimate. Though he’d also washed my hair and changed sheets I’d soaked with sweat, so maybe clothes washing was nothing at this point.
“Think you can sit here?” He gestured to where he’d set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast at the counter.
“Think so.” I slipped onto the stool and rested my forearms on the countertop. The food wasn’t quite as revolting as the toast I’d been force-fed yesterday, which had to be a good sign.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, disappearing down the hall.
Maybe that was for the best. We’d never been chatty friends. Even before we’d had our falling out, we’d been comfortable, but not chatty. I didn’t imagine he was this way with anyone, though maybe Kenny could get him gabbing.
I heard the whoosh of water in the pipes and the sound of the washer lid closing. A minute later, he returned to the kitchen.
“That going down okay? I can make something else.”
I shook my head as I chewed the bite. “No, this is great. Thank you.”
He turned back toward the stove and presented me with his broad back draped in a worn T-shirt and pooling just a little at the waistband of his gray sweatpants. I swallowed hard and bounced my eyes away because acknowledging how completely and utterly masculine he was would not help my fever. If I’d ever had a physical type, it was his, and if he’d ever given me a clue he was interested… how different would it all have been? Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen for Kurt’s overt interest after resolving not to pursue someone who showed me only friendship.
Those thoughts were so far from the point right now, yetseeing him like this, barefoot in his mountain hideaway with his fluffball cat swirling around his feet…
It broke me. Had to be thanks to the illness, but my eyes filled with tears again and I ducked my head to swipe at them before he could see. Between letting all my pent-up anger fly at him and then having him take care of me for days, there was too much space in me available for new feelings.
A niggling sensation flashed into my mind like we’d talked about something I’d regret, but I couldn’t summon details. Hopefully, it’d come back to me, and more so, I hoped I hadn’t said anything too honest. Had I been mean to him again?
When he settled into the seat next to me, a plate of his own filled with huge portions of what he’d made me and a steaming mug of black coffee, I turned to him.
“I never got to say what I came to say. I know you don’t really want to hear anything from me”—he shook his head like my words frustrated him, but I pressed on—“but I need to.”
His glare was less furious and more bracing, if such a thing could be parsed out by looking.
With a deep breath, I said, “I heard about your grandmother, and I wanted to say I’m very sorry. I know she meant a lot to you.”
