“Sorry,” I murmur, my lips close to his ear.
“Not your fault.” The sound is followed by a grunt.
I adjust my grip until he’s propped against the headboard with pillows from the other side of the bed tucked behind him.
His breathing evens out, but I can see the tension lining his jaw and the beads of sweat on his brow. I tug the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my thumb and dab it away.
He reaches for my wrist, holding it gently between his finger and thumb, revealing just how large his hand is in comparison. “Thank you.”
Those two words land deeper than I expect. “You’re welcome.”
I grab the bowl in one hand and the spoon in the other. He reaches for it, but as soon as his shoulder twists, pain flashes across his face.
I pull the bowl back. “No, let me.”
I perch on the side of the bed, my hip flush against his. Then, I scoop up a spoonful, blow on it gently, and hold it near his lips. Garrett looks at me, not the spoon, or the soup, but at me. The kind of heated look that warms my insides, like a large mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows.
He leans ever so slightly forward and takes the spoon into his mouth.
“How is it?” I ask.
He swallows. “Surprisingly good.”
I bite down on my lower lip to hide the simple pleasure of his compliment. “You didn’t think I could cook?”
His hand falls onto my knee and just rests there, a solid reminder of his presence. “Let’s just say, I look forward to being surprised by what youcando.”
I try not to glow like the porch light of my house that I can see through the window. “Your boyfriend practically inhaled his portion.”
I use the wordboyfriendmore to clarify to myself their relationship to each other.
That gets a real smile. Pained, but real. “Yeah, Kai never met food he didn’t love. And the asshole can eat a mountain of it without putting on a pound in weight.”
I scoop another spoonful of food and offer it to him. “I wish I had that skill. If I so much as look at a slice of chocolate cake wrong, I gain two pounds.”
He glances at my body. “You look good, sweetheart. Different from how you looked in the club. But better. You changed your hair. It suits you.”
I know he means it as a compliment, but I hate the comparison to club Isla. Just thinking about her…
“It’s closer to my natural color,” I say, trying to escape the feeling in my gut. “Thought I could save money on dyeing itevery eight weeks.” Because being such a bright blonde was part of my clubhouse persona, what I thought I had to do.
What I’m trying to let go of.
My hand shakes, for a moment, and Garrett puts his hand over mine to gingerly guide the spoon to his lips. I don’t say anything, simply wait for him to swallow. But I think about leaving.
Maybe I shouldn’t be here.
“You’re safe, Isla.”
“Am I?” I ask.
“You’re asking the man who can’t get a spoon to his mouth unaided. You’re more able to hurt me right now.”
I heard on a podcast that checking in with your body when you feel unsafe is a good thing. Things we’re pre-programmed to feel fear from can feel like real danger when they aren’t. They can induce flight or freeze or fight.
My body is warm. I’m not under threat. And if I’m honest, I feel the fleeting sensation of being cared for.
Even though I’m the one spoon feeding Garrett.
