Page 39 of The Best Parts of Him
A doggie yip came from downstairs followed by the murmur of Ryland’s voice.
In the twenty-four hours Ryland had been here, he’d made best friends with the dogs, cleaned off the kitchen table and sorted all the crap on it into various piles for Dabbs to go through—“I threw out the junk mail, though,” Ryland had said this morning. “Did you know you had coupons for American Flatbread that expired at the end of August?”—organized the spice drawer alphabetically, gone to his first rehab appointment in Burlington, returned from his appointment with ingredients for lunch, made lunch, video-called Jason and Denver, taken the dogs to the pet store just because, and gone live from Dabbs’ yard to talk about, of all things, the best hipster coffee shops in Burlington.
Even though he hated the stuff.
Dabbs had heard him through his open window, and honestly, Ryland had been so convincing that Dabbs kind of wanted to try the hipster coffee places even though he, too, hated the stuff.
Also wanted to tell Ryland to take a breather and slow down for a minute. The guy never stopped moving.
Closing his laptop, Dabbs set it and the laptop table aside. Gingerly, he got out of bed, his side giving a twinge, and took himself to the bathroom. He’d removed his shirt, and he was halfway through peeling off the gauze bandage over his incision when Ryland poked his head in.
“I was thinking of— Hey! Stop that. That’s my job.”
“I can do it,” Dabbs said.
“I know you can, but changing your bandage is literally why I’m here.” Ryland leaned him back against the vanity as if he were a child with a boo-boo. “Don’t make me tell your mom you weren’t cooperating.”
Dabbs scoffed. “Please. I’m a model patient.”
“Then prove it by letting me be patient and gentle nursemaid and changing your bandage.”
“Fine,” Dabbs said, laughing despite himself. “The supplies are on the counter there.”
Ryland grinned triumphantly, removed his sling, and washed his hands.
The bathroom was minuscule: a two-drawer vanity, a toilet, and a walk-in shower. Barely two feet separated the vanity and the wall, and when Ryland crouched to remove the rest of Dabbs’ bandage, the space between them suddenly got literally and metaphorically smaller.
Ryland’s touch was soft. Careful. Deliberate. Almost clinical as he peeled off the gauze.
Dabbs’ belly quivered.
“Shit, sorry,” Ryland said. “Didn’t mean for that to sting.”
If only he knew that Dabbs was going over hockey plays in his head so he didn’t sting.
Jesus.
Dabbs stared at the top of Ryland’s head, at the messy waves falling over his forehead and the furrow of concentration between his brows. Ryland didn’t hurry as he cleaned the incision, the epitome of patient and gentle nursemaid after all.
Dabbs had to admit, as a nursemaid, Ryland excelled.
Not because of this. Or at least, not only this. But because he’d made sure Dabbs took his pain meds if he needed them, he walked the dogs so Dabbs wouldn’t have to stand for longer than necessary, he made sure the house was quiet when Dabbs needed a nap, he did laundry, and he’d purchased enough boxes of Jell-O, fruit juices, and popsicles to keep Dabbs on a liquid diet until the Apocalypse.
“It’s looking good,” Ryland murmured, inspecting the incision like one would inspect a child’s head for lice. “No redness, no pus. Pass me a square of gauze?”
Dabbs grabbed one from the box on the counter and handed it over, grateful Ryland didn’t notice how his hand shook.
The restraint it took to stop himself from hauling Ryland to his feet and kissing him . . .
Fuck. But the sight of Ryland on his knees in front of him combined with the gentle way he took care of him twisted something loose in Dabbs’ chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath, all of the blood in his head rushing south when Ryland patted the sides of the tape keeping the gauze in place, his fingers cool against Dabbs’ stomach.
“Sorry.” Ryland snatched his hand away. “Did that hurt?” He sat back on his heels . . .
Which was when he noticed the bulge behind Dabbs’ sweatpants, judging by the way his eyes widened.
Dabbs couldn’t have hidden his semi if he’d tried—it was his own bad luck that he’d opted for fitted sweatpants.
