He shoots me a glittering look with those sharp blue eyes. “And here’s me thinking this was more of a damsel-in-distress situation.”
I suck in a breath, avoiding the urge to find comfort in his too-familiar expression. “I don’t need your help.”
He cocks an eyebrow and squeezes his fingers lightly around my ankle. My leg jerks and I whimper in agony. “You’re a sadist!”
“You’re in more pain than you’re letting on and your ankle has doubled in size since the trail.” His eyes fix on me. “So, you’re going to sit here, accept my help and stop whining.” His stare returns to its annoyed-with-me neutral state, but with a flicker of concern so faint, I could blink and miss it.
Him looking up at me like that, his large hands steadying my ankle and calf, gives me a feeling low in my stomach that I really don’t want to deal with right now.I let out an annoyed exhale and fall back onto the sofa, arm up over my face to avoid his gaze.
“So youareable to do what I tell you? Good to know.”
Heat spreads over my chest and I wish I’d just died there in the dust. Sunk into the ground and became one with the dirt, never to be mortified again. Bancroft takes my ankle and begins unknotting the stained laces of my old ratty trainers, sucking his teeth.
“What now?” I sigh. He can’t help but be critical of my every breath. Is he like this with everyone or is this a personality trait he saves just for me?
“It’s like a child tied these—no wonder you ate it on the trail.” He holds up my loosely tied laces.
“Sorry I didn’t learn the Queen’s Knot in finishing school or whatever.” I feel him holding back a laugh. Even when I’m pissed off at him, it always gives me a small sense of satisfaction to break his controlled veneer. He stands and heads back to the marble kitchen.
“Why are you so eager to help me anyway? We’re mortal enemies.”
He bends down into the fridge, rummaging for something, and I feel my cheeks redden, his fitted hiking gear not leaving much to the imagination when he’s in this position.
“It would be boring to beat you while you’re down: not a very worthy opponent.” He flashes me a megawatt smile as he cracks the cap of a green juice and hands it to me in a way that feels like a brief peace offering.
Sniffing the thick, dark green liquid is like inhaling a boggy marsh.
He watches me crinkle my nose and lets out a long sigh. “Just... drink it. It’s good for you.”
“You don’t eat normal people food anymore?” A pang of regret hits me right in the chest as I remember all the food he used to order for our dinners at the office when we had to work late. How I used to take the piss out of his insistence on ordering stir-fries only to pick out half the ingredients and put them on my plate.
“I don’t really eat here. I’m either at the office or out with... friends.” He turns back toward the kitchen and returns with toasted brown bread and two pills on a beige-speckled plate, I raise an eyebrow in question.
“Don’t be weird. It’s just ibuprofen. For the inflammation. You’ll have to stay here for a bit to wait for the swelling to stop.” He hands me a highball glass of water and stands in front of me, watching me. I take the tablets and notice his eyes fixed on my throat as I gulp down the rest of the water. “I’m gonna wash off the hike. You rest. I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Please do, I think you got some of your stink on me when you carried me down the hill.”
He throws a middle finger up over his shoulder as he leaves. I hear the creak of a door followed by the rainfall of a high-pressure shower.
The urge to snoop around his apartment while he is out of the room is almost unbearable. Every wall, counter and square foot tells a story of Bancroft, orat the very least tells the story of who decorated this place for him. It even smells like him, a soft woody scent with sweet citrus that sticks in your mind long after he’s gone. I lean to try and see more of the room, but the movement causes a sharp pain to jolt up my leg from my ankle. Inspecting the injury for the first time, I lift the ice pack and press a finger against the golf-ball-size swelling sticking out where my ankle bone would usually be. I decide to stay put. I can snoop without moving too much.
From where I’m sitting, I can see into his bedroom. I take in the cream sheets with brown piping on the edges making up what looks like a king-size bed.
I don’t know why I expected there to be a gorgeous woman waiting here on a Sunday morning to cook him brunch, the same person who helped him decorate. I take the opportunity to investigate the personal effects, mostly magazines and TV remotes, within arm’s reach to see if there is anything indicating another person’s presence.
After a few minutes, I hear the rapid stream of the water stop, replaced by the sounds of bare feet padding from his bathroom into his bedroom.
“You live alone?” My voice echoes across the open-plan expanse.
“It’s what I’m used to,” his voice projects back through the cracked bedroom door. “I like my own company.”
“I guess force-feeding people green sludge when they walk through the door tends to push them away?”
“Only if they’re caffeine and sugar addicts,” he calls back.
I crack a smile and sip at the earthy sludge juice.
I scan each surface of his apartment, and eventually land on the coffee table. Stacks of thick coffee table books are scattered in a way that makes me believe he might have actually read them: a giant book of David Hockney paintings, Slim Aarons photography, the NASA archives; Bancroft could start a Taschen exhibition from his living room. Using the tips of my fingers to drag a landscape photography book titledRemote Experiences: Extraordinary Travel from North to Southfrom the top of the pile to the edge of the table, I grab it and flip through the pages, hoping an explanation of his inner workings is hidden within the text. The flashes of color and smooth stream of paper through my hands is abruptly stopped by the presence of a bookmark. Except, it’s not a bookmark. Placing the heavy book on my lap, I slide out the long rectangular card and my hand starts to tremble as the realization hits me.
