My lips twitch, and I pat her head. Once, twice. My voice is lazy with amusement when I rumble, “Good girl.”
She smacks me in the stomach.Shit. Should’ve seen that coming.
“Oh my god.” Her hands spring up to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Reflex.”
I hug the sore spot with a wince and try to hold back a laugh. “Reflex? To what? Head-patting?”
“No, just to bullshit.” She smiles, stands on the tips of her toes, and plants a sweet kiss on my cheek. “We should probably get a doctor to look at that.”
Eva
(Nine days later ...)
Iwring my hands, pacing back and forth between the floor-to-ceiling windows and the cherry red sofa set. My nerves are escalating like I’m suspended upside down at the top of the world’s tallest roller coaster, and it’s not because I’m in a hotel for the first time since I was thirteen. It was my idea to stay local until Easton’s release from the hospital, so I could still see him every day. Itwasn’tmy idea for it to be at the most expensive high-rise hotel in the city, but apparently, Easton is insistent when it comes to keeping me comfortable.
Chewing my lip, I glance at the clock on the wall, then at the entrance to my room. Any second, he’s going to walk through that door, and the anticipation is a ho. Since he’s not supposed to drive while on medication, I planned on renting a car and picking him up from the hospital myself, but apparently, he’s also insistent when it comes to me getting my licensebeforeI drive. He opted for an Uber instead. It’s highly inconvenient that his whole “law-abiding” thing sets my ovaries aflame.
Theclickof a key card makes my heart flutter, and I freeze.
The knob turns, the door swings open.
Easton stands in the doorway wearing a white T-shirt, grey hoodie, and a worn pair of jeans. A duffle bag with the green and white insignia of his football team hangs off his shoulder. He meets my gaze, eyes darkening as they slide down the length of my short blue dress, and that single look warms my skin like the sun just moved over my head.
The door shuts behind him, and he drops the duffle bag at his feet. “What are you wearing?”
I pull my shoulders back, standing tall. “The lady at the store said it’s a cami dress.”
“Who’s Cami?”
My shoulders deflate. “I don’t know. Google said pale blue is the most soothing color for the healing process, so I asked the sales clerk for a dress in my size to match it.” I look down at the outfit, wrinkle my nose. I’ve been fantasizing about cutting a slit across the tummy since I bought it this afternoon. “This is what she brought me, and I didn’t have time to cut it up before you got here.”
Easton’s lips pull up in a small smile, and he moves toward me slowly. Deliberately. My heart pounds against my rib cage. He’s not supposed to look at me like that, not yet. I did a lot of research on the recovery process after trauma and surgery, and I want to do a good job taking care of him. But I don’t know if I can. I’ve never taken care of anyone before.
When he reaches me, his fingers trail down my dress, then lightly grip the material at the bottom. I try to ignore the skim of his thumb against my thigh, the dip in my chest.
“You Googled healing colors?”
His voice is low, too low, with just enough heat around the edges to send a hot flush up my neck. “We need to take your recovery seriously, Easton. It’s important we get you feeling better and back into a normal routine.”
Nailed it.
“Google tell you that too?”
“Yup.” Clearing my throat, I swat his hand away and guide him toward the sofa, then give a gentle push until he sits.
He stretches his legs, leans back, and peers up at me lazily. “All right.” Amusement, tinged with something far darker, laces his voice. “Go ahead, Eva. Tell me how you’re gonna make me feel better.”
My lips part as those words rush through me and settle where they shouldn’t. That’s not fair. The internet said he needs to rest. Studying me, his lips twitch with the smallest hint of a smile, and my eyes narrow when I see the challenge in his expression. What he doesn’t know is, the Eva he’s looking at is all grown-up, and his silly, immature, sexy, masculine, delicious—wait, no, hisstubbornnessdoesn’t hold a candle to mine.
“That’s not going to work,” I say, arching a brow. “I need you to remove a few layers of clothing.” His brows shoot up, and my cheeks flush as I realize how that sounded. Being mature is a fucking buzzkill. “Because of the heat. It’s important you don’t get too cold or too hot, so I already had the heater turned up since it’s raining outside.”
His lips twitch. “I’m not taking anything off.”
“Easton—”
“But I’ll let you take it off for me.”
Heat curls in my lower stomach. He’s playing dirty. I might be all grown-up now, but I’m still Eva. No one plays dirty better than me.
