“Mr. Fleming?”
I jerked my attention away from Weston’s face. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Thank you.”
She held out an arm for me to take, and with her help, I hobbled to the bathroom. She handed me my clothes and waited outside the door. “Do you need me to help you?”
“Yes, please.” My hands gripping the sink, the aide helped slip on my briefs and removed the brace before pulling my jeans up. The shirt was another matter. Lifting my arms with my ribs so sore hurt like a bitch, and I had no idea how I’d be able to put it on. Weston had remained in the chair, but his penetrating gaze reached across the room. I could almost feel his hands on me again.
I wanted it.
“I-I can’t do this.”
“It would’ve been better if you didn’t have a pullover,” she agreed. “But we’ll make do.”
“We could trade.” With his fingers already flying down the buttons, Weston took off his shirt. “We’re the same size, I think. Here.” His nearness in his half-undressed state sent a throb low in my belly, and though I tried not to gawk, I couldn’t help noticing the swirls of golden-brown chest hair. We hadn’t gotten naked that night—only our dicks had made an appearance—and I had no idea why the sight of Weston without his shirttied me up in knots and made me alternately hot and cold and decidedly uncomfortable. I sneaked a glance at Weston, and his face reflected the same turmoil boiling inside me.
The aide’s eyes widened, and she laughed. “Now that’s being a good friend.”
“Why, thank you. I try.”
One thing Weston knew was how to turn on the charm. In that respect, he was a true politician.
“You’re lucky, Mr. Fleming,” she said as she assisted me in slipping an arm into the sleeve.
I met Weston’s smirk with a slight shake of my head yet couldn’t help my lips from twitching. He was annoying as hell, but helpful all the same, and I couldn’t get mad at him. The shirt did fit, and the subtle scent of Weston’s cologne clung to it, invading my senses.
“There you go.” She finished buttoning it.
Finally, I was dressed. I shoved my good foot into my sneaker without bothering to put on socks. I knew I had to say something to Weston, who’d sat watching me struggle.
“All set?” he asked.
I chewed my bottom lip. “Yeah. Uh, thanks for giving me your shirt. It made it a lot easier.”
“At your service.” That cocky grin I’d always hated appeared, but for some odd reason, it didn’t bother me now. Maybe Weston was growing on me. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to take you back to the hotel and then drive you home to the city.”
“What?” The ride would take well over an hour, and I couldn’t imagine sitting in a car with Weston for that long. “Absolutely not. You don’t have to do that. I can manage.”
He snorted. “Yeah, okay, Mr. I-Can’t-Put-My-Pants-On-By-Myself. Are you kidding? You came by train, right?”
I nodded.
His usual devil-may-care expression softened. “Come on, Brenner. Can you picture yourself dragging a suitcase behind you and sitting squashed next to someone who might’ve eaten tons of Taco Bell for lunch and now has regrets?”
I couldn’t help it and busted out laughing. Which hurt like fucking hell, bringing tears to my eyes and spiraling me into intense pain. “Oh fuck, don’t do that again,” I gasped, holding my sides.
“Case closed. After you’re discharged, we’ll check out of the hotel, and I’ll take you home.” Eyes twinkling, he twirled the car keys around his finger.
My head and ankle throbbed in unison, and I had little desire to fight with him. “Fine, fine. Whatever.”
The wheelchair came along with my crutches, and after they adjusted them to my height, I was brought downstairs. It felt damn good to be out of the medicinal hospital air, even if I was sitting in a parking lot. Weston pressed a bill into the orderly’s hand, then moved me farther away from the curb.
“I’ll just be a minute. Going to get the car.”
I gave a slow nod, my head still throbbing. As I waited, I mulled the odd turn of events. How and when had Weston become—I hesitated to say it—my friend? I’d hold off judgment. A car pulled up—a Mercedes, of course—and Weston hopped out and attempted to take my arm.
“Lean on me.”
I shook him off. “I have the crutches, and I need to learn to use them.” After only five steps, my breath came in short pants and my shirt—well, Weston’s—was soaked through with sweat. “This looks a lot easier than it is.” I gritted my teeth but againrefused Weston’s help. To say he was frustrated with me was an understatement.
