I openedthe door to my apartment and stepped inside, holding it open for Lyla. I saw the surprise in her parents’ faces when I’d offered up my place for Lyla to stay while she recovered. Knew there was likely some disappointment on their part, too. That they would see her “choosing” me over them as a bit of a slight. But I knew it was the right choice. I knew Lyla. She was independent, and on more than one occasion had complained about how her mom worried about everything under the sun—especially when it came to Lyla’s career choice. I didn’t think she’d be happy staying with them.
I placed a hand on the small of her back and led her to one of my oversized armchairs. “Want me to make tacos tonight?”
She smiled up at me. “Oh, I’d die for your tacos.”
I flinched. I never wanted to hear her say “I” and “die” in the same sentence ever again.
“What’s wrong?” Her brows pulled together as she stared at me.
“Nothing.” I shook my head then walked toward the back of the apartment to deposit her duffel on the bed in the spare room. I’d helped her pack it when we stopped by her apartment before coming here.
That was fun. She collected all her clothes and put me in charge of fitting everything in the bag. I almost completely lost it when she placed a bunch of bras and panties on her bed for me to pack. Like she didn't bat an eye. But of course she didn't. She saw me as just a friend, not a guy who would imagine her wearing said undergarments. Regardless, there was no way I could touch them, so I did the most logical thing—I draped a T-shirt over them, wrapping it around them, and put the whole bundle in the bag.
I took a quick glance around the guest room. I’d barely used it since Zack got his own place last year, and mostly only when my sister came to visit. She preferred staying with me rather than with our mom. She and Mom rarely saw eye to eye. Janet wanted freedom, and my mom didn’t care that she was twenty-four, she still had rules. So, more often than not, Janet crashed with me.
I did a double check, making sure the room was good to go. The bed was made, dresser and nightstand clutter free. I pulled a few extra pillows from the closet so she could prop herself up if she needed to, and then made my way back to Lyla.
I found her in the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge with the door open.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting something to drink.”
I took the jug of orange juice from her hands and placed it on the counter. “Stubborn woman,” I mumbled, leading her back out of the kitchen. “You need to rest and let me take care of you.”
She spun toward me with her left hand on her hip and a glare trained on me. “I didn’t want to stay with my parents because Ididn’t want them fussing over me. Don’t tell me you’re going to do the same thing now.”
I lifted my hands up in mock surrender. “Easy now.” Her pupils flared and I bit back a smirk. “Not trying to fuss, but, no offense, you’re a bit clumsy when youdon’thave a concussion and a bad arm. I’m just trying to avoid cleaning up a mess.”
If I was Pinocchio, my nose would have grown a whole foot. Because honestly, I really did want to take care of her.
With a roll of her eyes, she reached out and swatted my stomach with the back of her hand. I fought the urge to catch her wrist and pull her against me. I’d been fighting the urge to hold her since the moment she woke up in the hospital. Maybe even before that.
I searched her face and let out a sigh. “Look, just give me a few days. Rest and let me help you. Once I’m sure you’re not going to get dizzy or lose your balance, I promise I’ll stop fussing.”
As if my words sunk into her subconscious, she reached out, gripping my arm and pinched her eyes shut. “I think you’re right.”
Shit. I laced my arm around her back and led her back to the chair, attempting to push the worry away. I knew what to expect. What to watch for. This was normal, and exactly what I thought might happen if she tried to do too much too fast. But reminding myself of all that was easier said than done.
I studied her for a moment, until she squinted one eye open to look up at me.
“I’m okay,” she offered. “Now that I’m stable, can I have that glass of orange juice?”
“Of course.” I headed back to the kitchen and poured her a cup, bringing it to her a minute later. “Here ya go.”
She opened her eyes and smiled at me. “Thank you.”
I nodded, attempting to push away the sensation that raced through me from her smile. “You’re welcome. I’m going to start the tacos. Just holler if you need anything.”
“Okay.”
As I prepared the meal, I couldn’t help but peek back in on her. It sucked that I didn’t have an open concept apartment. I wanted to be able to see her as I cooked. Talk to her. Was she bored? Watching TV was out of the question for at least the first few days. But she seemed to be resting and content, so I went back to prepping all the ingredients for the tacos.
Once I was ready to plate everything, I stepped back into the living room. “Did you want to try to eat at the table?” I hooked a thumb behind me toward the small dining area outside the kitchen. “Or in here?”
She slowly sat up straight. “Table would be nice.”
I offered her my hand, and when her fingers brushed against mine, a buzz of electricity shot up my arm and through my body. As I led her to one of the chairs, I couldn’t help but wonder if she felt it too.
