Page 31 of Seven Nights

“I feel a mess,” I say. “I don’t want to get it all over the bed.”

He carries me to the bathroom and sits me on the counter. He turns the warm water on, wets a washcloth. I’m sure I could do this myself, but I don’t argue when he braces a hand on my shoulder and begins to move the cloth in soft, intimate circles.

Except for the worried downturn of his mouth and the blood covering the side of my face and neck, this would work as foreplay.

I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this—not only cleaning my injuries, but looking genuinely worried about my wellbeing. That person was my mother, of course. But for the last few years of her life, Mad Maddy couldn’t take care of herself, let alone someone else.

Of course, Griffin is being solicitous for different reasons. He’s probably worried about premise liability. My mouth turns down at the possibility—and the fact that it doesn’t feel like petulance or exaggeration for me to think of it.

“Did that hurt?” he asks, the words hurried and pinched.

I tilt my head so I can see all of his face.

“No.”

“Your mouth kind of looked like it did.”

I start to shake my head but think better of it.

“No,” I repeat. “Just trying to clear the wool from my head.”

He surprises me with a kiss.

“You'll take a two-way with you next time you run the grounds.”

He tosses the washcloth in the sink then slowly strips the track top from me. Trying to school my expression into something that isn’t wide-eyed and slack jaw, I watch his face. There is no way I will be running again before the week with Griffin is out. Even I am not that stupid or stubborn. So there will be no “next time” for me to run on his property.

Unless he wants more than one week, that is, and just inadvertently exposed his desire.

“I won’t be able to run again this week,” I start then trail off.

His mouth twitches as he drops down to remove my socks and shoes.

“Right,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Well, that answers that.

Hurt unfurls inside my chest, but I keep it from showing on my face. I let him tug me into a standing position and peel the running pants down inch by inch, his head lightly pressing against my stomach to help my balance remain centered. Again, he keeps his touch slow and intimate.

If I didn’t know better, I would think Griffin is reassuring himself that I am okay beyond the obvious injuries. Even if that is so, it is no different than how he might run his hands over one of his expensive antiques if it fell to the floor. But, unlike the antiques, I’m neither rare nor priceless.

When nothing more than a bra and underwear cover me, he braces a hand against my stomach and grabs the thick robe hanging on a hook next to the shower. I let him thread my arms through and knot the sash, my body remaining pliant until the moment he moves to scoop me up again.

This is all getting too cozy, too domestic. It will only fill my head with stupid thoughts. I wiggle in protest and push at his shoulder.

“I can walk.”

He scoops me up anyway.

Carrying me to the bed, he presses his lips against my temple before dropping them to brush against my ear.

“Don’t care,” he whispers.

Harriet stands to the side with an ice bag in hand, her face clearly pinched with worry. Seeing us, she pulls the top covers back as a light, but masculine, voice drifts from the doorway.

“A billionaire orderly, that's something I never thought I'd see!”

Griffin’s face goes blank and his body goes stiff. He places me on the mattress then straightens and takes the ice from Harriet. Motioning for her to leave, he pushes the ice bag into the newcomer’s hands.

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