Page 120 of Painted Scars
“Sure.” I pat at my bandage and sit up.
He spins onto his shins, easing me upright and tucking an extra pillow to prop me up.
He peels back the bandage to inspect the worst of it. “It’s healing well. No infection.”
Officer Daddy unscrews the bottle of antibiotics and dispenses another for me, and I swallow it down with a gulp of water.
“Headache? Dizziness? Vision? Nausea?” he asks in his no-nonsense detective voice.
“Pain’s down from a screaming seven to a four. Though, I may have the Tylenol to thank for that.” I wipe at the sleep in my eyes and remember the rest of his question. “No dizziness. Vision is strange.” I squint at him.
His brow pinches and he presses his wrist to my forehead, checking my temperature. “How so?”
I huff out a little laugh. “I’m messing with you. I’m not used to waking up to your face or unruly bed hair.” A nice problem to have, given the scope of what I’m dealing with.
He exhales some of the tension between us. “I’ll put the helmet back on.”
“Don’t you dare.” We both smile and stare at each other.
When his gaze lowers to my mouth, I cough and break the hold of his spell.
I cover my tracks and resume my health report before my Book Girlie flirts away our betrayal and winds up pinned beneath him. “Nausea is flirting, not dating. The room is steady. Can’t say the same for your pipes, which kept me up for an hour.”
“That’s what you get for living in an abandoned warehouse that’s seventy years old.” He brings two fingers to my gaze, and I follow them, left and right. “Any light sensitivity?”
I lift my hand to shade my eyes. “Only to the morning glare coming off the harbor and the tin panels in your window.”
He almost smiles. “Good. I’ll get you more Tylenol and water.”
“Thank you for checking on me last night,” I say.
“PJ3 would be jealous of my guard dog duty.” His smile is forlorn and falls fast as he departs for the bathroom.
I check my phone for messages or missed calls. Several updates from Harper. She’s with Josh and they’re safe. He’s bitching because she didn’t bring his favorite toy. I snort and shake my head. A question asking if I’m okay and do I want to stay with August? Ending with a promise to call later. A message from Charlie, who I also texted last night to let her know I’m okay should she hear anything on the news.
I drop my phone to my lap and ponder Harper’s question. Book Girlie me signs me up for Witness Protection, Dark Romance Edition. Rational me drafts a contract with strict boundaries, limited touches, and absolutely no smiles or jokes.
He returns with a fresh glass of water and pills, leaving them on the nightstand this time. He’s gone from growler to professional gentleman, the possessive edge sheathed, hands within reach, yet too far away.
“Hungry?” he asks. “I don’t have much. Cereal. Long-life milk.”
I smile and lean on my elbow and rest my head in my hand. “You don’t stay here much, do you?”
“It reminds me how alone and numb I am,” he admits.
Oof. The helmet’s off, the truth is out, and it’s too early for that kind of honesty and bruises… especially without caffeine.
I try to lighten it with, “Feed me zombie apocalypse cereal. What vintage is the milk? Are there clumps and hints of a nuclear fallout bunker?”
Bad Book Girlie. No joking.
He huffs out a breath that almost counts as a laugh. “You’re feeling better.”
Just trying to break the awkwardness strangling me.
“Back in a bit.” He disappears, rustling food together with tea, and I watch him move, efficient and precise.
His kitchenette is simple with a single burner, old plastic kettle, chipped enamel mugs, everything scrubbed to an anxious shine with lemon cleaner, probably to remove any DNA. The dented mini fridge hums softly. One plate and cutlery set neatly in the drying rack. Everything precise and so fucking lonely.
