Page 4 of Concussion Protocol
Honestly, if I didn’t find Jon so attractive, I would have suggested it myself. Like she said, it’s not like we’re strangers. And I'll be damned if Regina is going to make me look like an asshole.
Regina follows me into the small locker room, where I clock out and pull on a jacket. I pointedly ignore her knowing grin until I'm about to walk through the door.
"I don't know what you think you're doing, Regina, but I'm?—"
"A professional. I know. But I also know you wouldn't do anything to compromise that man or your reputation. If you two happen to chat and get to know each other better, and maybe make some plans to get together on your day off… Well, there's no rule that says you can't get to know someone."
The ride to Jon's house is awkward. He's probably incredibly uncomfortable, considering his knees are practically at his ears with the way his large body is folded into my tiny car. The thicktension is the only thing that can compete with how much space he takes up, physically and mentally.
At first, neither of us talk, and my mind keeps going back to the way he looked at me while I was helping him dress. It's the way any man wants to be looked at when he's on his knees for someone, especially someone as goddamned beautiful as Jon Wilton. But that's just my exhaustion speaking, I’m sure of it. I shake my head and try to think of a way to break the tension. It's too cold and rainy outside to crack open a window.
Just as I'm reaching for the dial to turn the radio on, Jon blurts,"Eric is a douchebag."
An obnoxiously loud guffaw explodes from me before I can control myself.
"I'm acutely aware, thanks," I say dryly.
"I always wondered what you saw in him."
Rolling my eyes, I glance at the GPS display on my phone and then focus on the road again.
"Yeah, well, I have a weakness for assholes with thick thighs and thicker brains."
Jon laughs, and I can't help but smile. I wasn't expecting this line of conversation, that's for sure.
“I have the same problem with blondes with big tits.”
I choke on some of my own spit, both amused and the tiniest bit dismayed by his comment, since I have neither of those qualities.
So—he’s straight.That’s a good thing.It proves that the moment I thought we shared was nothing but my own imagination. I’mexhausted, that’s all this is. And he’s loopy from the medications he was given to calm his nerves for the CT he had done.For his head injury.
The joke manages to lighten the mood between us, and the rest of the drive goes by smoothly. When we arrive at his apartment complex, I suck air through my teeth.
"Please tell me you live on the ground floor?" I ask, looking at the steep stairs that weave between the three-story buildings.
"Afraid not," he chuckles, but waves me off. "I can manage, though. Thanks for the ride."
“Can you get your roommate out here to help you? I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk up those stairs alone. They might be slippery and you’re still unsteady on your feet.”
“I’m all good. Feeling more clear-headed by the minute. Thanks for the ride, Shane.” He gives me a small, almost shy smile. “It was nice catching up. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”
Before he can open the door, I pull away from the front of the building and into a parking spot.
"There's no way I'm going to let you walk up those stairs on your own," I say before getting out and waiting for him on the other side of the car. I snatch the small duffle bag from him before he can protest and start towards the stairs.
"I've managed with worse injuries," he insists gruffly. But by the time we’re halfway up the first flight of stairs, he’s swaying.
Pulling his arm over my shoulders, I pat his stupidly hard stomach and keep us moving. "Sure you have, big guy. You're big and tough and strong, I know."
He grumbles all the way up the three flights of very steep, very wet stairs. By the time we get to his apartment, I'm a little out of breath and he looks pale. Even though he was muttering about being able to take care of himself the whole way up, he doesn't protest at all when I take his keys from him and open the door while he leans against the wall. Pulling his arm around my shoulders again, I help him inside.
His apartment is surprisingly clean, and no one else is home. I get the impression he isn't here very often.I also get the impression that this is a one-bedroom apartment.
Leading him over to one of the barstools, I pull it out and instruct him to sit down.
“So…roommate?”
He looks down at his lap. “I, uh, might have lied about having a roommate.”
