But he is. Not just attractive, really, but mouth-wateringly handsome. Dressed in athletic shorts that drape over his muscled legs and a grey T-shirt that clings to his broad chest and exposes the intriguing tattoos decorating his arms, Indy meets the very definition of sexy. And with his striking blue eyes and those tempting dark waves framing his angular features, it’s pretty much impossible not to admire him.
Indy looks at me for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping across my face first, and then down my body. But it’s not an appreciative look; more assessing, like he’s checking to see if anything’s wrong.
Which shouldn’t be a surprise, with the whole concussion and being unconscious for nearly twelve hours thing. But still. I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed.
“Are you okay?” he asks again. “I heard you cry out.” His hand moves towards the bandage on my forehead, stopping inches away before pulling back.
I haven’t missed how he always uses his left hand to examine me, whether it’s replacing my bandage or taking my pulse. Most of the time, he keeps his right hand—his prosthetic one—held slightly behind his back or shoved deep in his pocket.
Which makes me sad. And it messes with the wholebeing angry with Indy for effectively kidnapping me, even if he had good intentions.
I don’t want him to be ashamed of his prosthetic.
He has nothing to be ashamed of.
If anything, he should be proud of himself—volunteering to put himself in such dangerous situations to begin with, surviving a terrible injury, sticking with months of intensive therapy, and learning how to use a high-tech prosthetic, which isn’t an easy thing.
But I can’t say all that. Not to a guy like Indy, who never,evertalked about his feelings.
So I force a weak smile and say, “I’m fine. I just bumped my hand is all.”
His eyebrows jump up. “Your hand? Did you hurt it? Can I take a look?”
“It’s really fine.” I wave my sore hand at him. There’s a tiny red mark on the back of it, but nothing more serious. “See?”
Indy gives my hand a suspicious look, like it’s about to fall off. “Okay,” he replies slowly. “But if you need ice…”
“It’s okay.” Taking a few steps back, I ask, “Did you want to come in?” Because, really, what am I supposed to say? Go away? When I’m staying in the apartment on his company’s property? In an apartment right down the hall from Indy’s, as he told me last night, emphasizing that I could come get him anytime if I needed something.
I thought about it. More than once. While I was tossing and turning in bed, trying to ignore the images of a lifeless Jenna behind my eyes, I thought about going to Indy’s apartment. For what? I don’t know. Just to see a familiar face? To feel less alone?
But I didn’t. I stayed here, driving myself crazy with unanswered questions and memories I wish I could forget, and responding to Indy’s frequent texts so he knew I was still alive and not dead from an undiagnosed brain bleed.
That’s another lovely thought to add to the rest of them.
“Well.” Indy pulls his hand out from behind his back to display two foil-wrapped packages with steam still wafting between the edges. “I brought something to eat. For breakfast. I didn’t think you’d feel like cooking yourself this morning, not when you’re still recovering.”
I look at the two round packages in his hand. “What are they?”
He gives me a small, crooked smile. “Breakfast sandwiches. I’m sure they’re not very good. But—” He shrugs. “I thought I’d offer.”
“Did you make them?”
“I did.” Indy follows me inside and shuts the door behind him. “That’s why I said they’re probably not good. Eden is always ribbing me about being a bad cook. But I never really needed to learn, you know? Being overseas so much, and once I wasn’t, it was weird, trying to do it one-handed. But I’ve gotten a little better since I moved here.”
I’m not really hungry, but there’s no way I’m turning Indy’s peace offering down. Or at least, that’s what I’m assuming it is.
“Well, they smell good,” I tell him. “So that’s a good start.”
Another rare smile appears; this time a rueful one. “You haven’t tasted it yet. You might say something different once you do.”
In silent agreement, we head over to the kitchen island and sit side-by-side on the stools in front of it. I unwrap my sandwich to find a slightly-mashed hamburger roll with overcooked egg, a melted slice of processed cheese, and some soggy bacon tucked inside it. “See,” Indy adds as he eyeballs my breakfast sandwich. “Not great. Like I said.”
After the first few bites, I can agree. But I won’t say that to him. Because as pissed as I am at Indy, I still don’t want to hurt his feelings. Especially when I can picture him in his kitchen, his brow furrowed as he tries to put everything together, then sweetly wrapping them in foil so he can bring them over to share with me.
“It’s good,” I say after washing down a dry mouthful of egg with a sip of freshly brewed blueberry crumble coffee. “Thank you for bringing one for me.”
He shoots me a skeptical look. “Good? I wouldn’t go that far. I’d say edible at best.”
