CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Lucy
Nash opens his front door in a charcoal-gray T-shirt and joggers, hair slightly tousled from his fingers having just raked through. I do my best not to notice the way the fabric clings to his chest. Or arms. Or anywhere, really.
But I do.
I’ve been nervous about seeing him again after the bar. What was with his protectiveness? My flirtation? And then there’s the confusing possibility that he might have been flirting back.
Will any of that come up?
Should itcome up?
Our situation is weird enough as it is.
“Hey,” I say, shifting awkwardly on my crutches to hold out a batch of chocolate chip cookies in a plasticbaggie. “I made these for you. They’re nowhere near as good as what Violet makes, but I wanted to say thanks for not rescinding your offer after the other night.”
Nash’s brow lifts. “Was I supposed to?”
I shrug. “You didn’t seem thrilled to see me at the bar.”
Though also, you kind of did, I think, remembering the way our eyes kept locking… right up until he stormed out of the place. I assumed I’d somehow made him mad, but he seems so chill today, I don’t know what to think.
Nash pauses. Then steps aside. “I wasn’t thrilled to see you six days post-concussion, holding a drink, in a room full of flying elbows. But I was glad to seeyou.”
That shouldn’t make me smile. But it does.
“Especially if you’re gonna keep bringing me treats.” He waggles the bag of cookies, then leads me to the gym. It’s already prepped, mat unrolled, resistance bands laid out, a clean towel folded neatly on the bench, next to a thick book which Nash picks up and hands to me.
“You seemed so interested in the process the last time we met that I thought you might be interested in reading this.”
I sit, then flip through the pages filled with images of ligaments and tendons, medical jargon and handwritten notes in the margin. I clutch it to my chest like the treasure it is. “Oh wow. This is so thoughtful. Thank you.”
“You seem surprised.”
“Not at the thoughtfulness. You’ve basically been dropping grumpy little kindness bombs since we met.”
“Grumpy little what now?”
“Well, yeah. At the hospital, you looked like you wanted to melt into the floor when you noticed I’d been crying, but then were so reassuring. Then, when Bennett brought me over here, you called me reckless and idiotic, then put together a whole rehab program. Last night? Stormed right over to grumble about my drink choice, but then told me you’d be there in a heartbeat if I needed you. Grumpy little kindness bombs.”
Nash stares for a long moment, then huffs a funny little laugh. “Better prepare yourself, because I’ve got one more for you.”
He pulls out his phone and after a few taps, music fills the room—low guitar strums, something bluesy and rich.
“This the musical education you promised?” I ask, easing onto the mat and undoing the straps on my ankle brace, the harsh rasp of the Velcro momentarily overpowering the music.
Nash nods, faintly smug. “Thought I’d help retrain your ears while we rehab your ankle.”
“Oh, so this is a dual-purpose session,” I say, lips twitching.
Nash tosses me a resistance band. “Exactly. A full body and soul restoration program.”
I roll my eyes, even as I catch myself smiling. “I’ll have you know Sandro René’s latest album has been described as transcendent.”
“By people with brain injuries?” he deadpans.
I snort, starting the first exercise. The music thrums low in the background—less distracting than I expected.Actually, it feels grounding. Warm. Like cinnamon and fireplaces and someone humming in the kitchen. We fall into rhythm, Nash guiding me through the exercises with steady hands and the occasional pointed glance when I try to push too far. His touch is professional. Focused.
