And now, by extension, Noelle’s. Because whatever’s going on with her, I’m not letting her face it alone anymore.
Honestly, I’m kind of pissed she didn’t say something sooner. Shit, she knows I work for a security company. She looked at our website. She’s met the team and been to our headquarters. And she knows I care about her. Why wouldn’t she have asked me for help?
At least, Ithinkshe knows how I feel about her.
Glancing across the apartment to where Noelle’s bed is tucked in the far left corner, I spot the stuffed Bigfoot I gave her sitting on the nightstand. Which gets me thinking,Have I given her enough gifts? Should I bring flowers for every date? Candy? Jewelry?
Shit. Did I screw up somewhere along the line, and that’s why Noelle hasn’t confided in me?
I head over to the nightstand and pick up Bigfoot, turning him over in my hands. My thoughts shift to the plans I’d initially made for tonight—dinner out at Angelo’s, then a stop in the town park to listen to a jazz quartet playing at the bandstand, and after that, back here to cuddle on the couch while we watch the movie version ofPhantom of the Opera.
No, musicals aren’t my thing. But after Noelle told me how she used to stage manage a traveling performance of the musical, I’ve been curious to see what it’s all about. “It’s not like seeing the musical live,” she explained, “but you still get the general idea. Plus, the songs are still the same. And they’re wonderful.”
I’d be lying if I claimed I hadn’t thought aboutafter. After the movie ended, would I go home like the nights before? Or would Noelle invite me to stay? If I did, would I sleep on the couch or in bed with her? Would we stick to kissing and keeping all our clothes on, or would things go further this time?
For the record, I’m fine with waiting. Do Iwantto have sex with Noelle? Of course. But if she’s not ready, that’s okay, too.
Not that we’re going to be doing any of that tonight. Not when my priority is figuring out what’s going on with Noelle and how me and my team can help her.
Just as I’m setting Bigfoot back on the nightstand, the bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam escapes. A second later, Noelle appears in the doorway, her gaze sweeping the apartment until it lands on me.
In baggy shorts and an oversized Washington State T-shirt, she looks even smaller than usual, which is saying something since she’s easily eight inches shorter than my six-foot-three. Her face is pale, and her eyes are ringed with pink. As she looks at me, she wraps her arms around herself, her shoulders hunching in.
“See.” She forces a tiny smile. “Itoldyou I was fine.”
Except she doesn’t sound fine, with her voice still raspy from crying. And she doesn’t look fine. She looks scared. Uncertain. Hurt. And so damn vulnerable.
I close the distance between us in several long steps, hesitating for only a second before pulling her into my arms. “Still,” I reply, “I’d rather see you than just take your word for it.” Pressing my lips to her head, I breathe in her soft vanilla scent as protectiveness surges through me.
Then I think of her injuries, so I move away slightly and take her hands in mine to look at them. There are two fresh Band-aids on her left palm, one of which already has blood seeping through.
The sight of Noelle bleeding makes my voice go rough. “I thought you were going to wear a glove in the shower,” I say. “That’s why I grabbed some extras from the diner. So your hand wouldn’t start bleeding again.”
Noelle’s chin takes on a defiant jut. “I tried. But I couldn’t wash my hair with it on. And anyway, the cuts aren’t that bad. They only bled a little.”
Even a little isn’t okay in my book, but I’m smart enough to know that now isn’t the time to argue. Instead, I wrap my arm around her waist and head over to the couch. “Sit. I’m going to put new bandages on.”
She remains standing. “The Band-aids are fine, Webb.”
But I’m already grabbing the first aid kit I brought in from my car. Because no self-respecting security expert goes anywhere without an extensive medi-kit, just in case. I might not be a medic, but I’m trained in CPR, rescue breathing, applying a tourniquet correctly, stitching up a wound, and even setting up a field transfusion.
“They’re not fine,” I retort. Then I gently tug Noelle onto the couch beside me. I put her hand on my lap and carefully remove the Band-aids, then use an antiseptic wipe to clean the exposed cuts. To my relief, my initial assessment still holds true—they don’t appear to need stitches, and should hopefully heal without scarring.
My jaw clenches again at the mere thought of a scar on Noelle’s small hand.
Breathing through a burst of anger, I work to keep my voice calm. “It’s just easier if I do it. And honestly… it makes me feel better.”
Her honey eyes meet mine, wide and questioning. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like seeing you hurt. I wish I could have stopped it. But since I can’t go back in time, this is the only thing I can do.”
“Oh,” she replies softly. “Okay, then.”
Noelle watches me in silence while I apply antibacterial ointment to her cuts and cover them with new bandages. When I’m done, I kiss her palm gently. “There. Now they’re all taken care of.”
She smiles at me, and this time it looks genuine. “Thanks, Webb.”
“Of course.” Rising, I hurry to the kitchen to grab the glasses of juice, then return to the couch and hand one to her. “I thought you might be thirsty. Plus?—”
