I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees. I have no way to repay him, but I’m going to try.
Some way, somehow I’ll make it up to Fletcher.
I wake up to sunlight filtering in through the blinds, and for a second, I don’t remember where I am. The air smells strange—all light and crisp. As I roll out of bed, a sharp pain stabs my left side, reminding me of the horrible fall last night. My ribs are definitely sore, but they’re not as sore as they would’ve been if I’d slept on the couch again.
I still can’t believe I’m here—in a bed.
As I stretch, my old joints pop in protest, but for once I don’t feel like a truck has hit me. I’d actuallyslept. More than that, I feel… rested. It’s a little disorienting.
After taking a piss, I fiddle with the Keurig but give up after a few minutes. I’ve never used one of those things. I have no idea how they work. Glancing out the window, I see the lights on in the house. Fletcher’s invitation for breakfast was unexpected, yet with only popcorn and cheese puffs in the cupboards, there’s not much choice—especially without a car to go get something.
But before anything else, I need a shower.
I toss my bag on the bed and dig out some clean clothes, then head to the bathroom. I strip while waiting for the water to warm up. It only takes seconds. I hit my elbow on the wall a few times as I wash up, making me curse all over again, but the seat is nice. It’ll be especially nice when my feet are too sore to stand. The bandage slides off in the water, so I reach up to touch the woundnear my ear. It stings under the water pressure, but it’s already scabbed over. Honestly, my side hurts worse than my head.
By the time I get dressed, my stomach is growling. I pull my boots on and head outside. The sky is bright and clear, the air cool. I follow the stone path toward the main house, noticing for the first time that Fletcher has a hot tub. Damn. Must be nice.
I hear voices through an open window as I reach the back patio. When I try the back door, it’s locked. A Rottweiler barks loudly on the other side, his giant head nearly reaching my hips.
Fletcher curses. “Shit, hold on.” A second later, the door slides open. “Sorry, I forgot to unlock it.”
Before I can reply, a massive blur of muscle and enthusiasm barrels straight at me. Fletcher grips the dog’s leather collar before it can knock me over.
“Whoa, hey! Bones, easy!” Fletcher’s voice sharpens. “Bones. Sit.”
The dog settles down, but doesn’t sit, back end wiggling from all the excitement.
The dog intimidates me. I mean, his head alone is three times the size of my hand, and his teeth are longer than my fingernails.
“Bones?” I ask, a little breathless.
Fletcher grins. “Yeah. Georgie named him. Don’t worry, he’s a big softie once he gets to know you. He’s named after the show.”
“With Dr. Brennan? The anthropologist?”
His grin widens. “That’s the one. Anyway, come on in. I’ll leave him outside while we eat.”
Fletcher tosses a rubber ball for Bones, who chases after it. I can barely suppress a shudder. I swear I’ve never seen a dog so big.
I slip inside quickly, entering the dining area. The house smells like eggs and something sweet. A round wooden dining table sits in a bay window with a red vase in the center. The kitchen is clean, all light oak and full of warm hues.
To my left is the living room, with a simple L-shaped sofa facing the TV. A teenage girl sits cross-legged on the couch, dark hair pulled into a messy bun and dark glasses slipping down her nose as she plays on a handheld device.
“Hey, Georgie,” Fletcher says. “This is Vince. Vince, my daughter.”
The girl barely glances up from her screen. “Hi. Sorry, give me a sec.”
Fletcher gestures toward the kitchen. “I made quiche and muffins earlier. Would you like some?”
My stomach answers before I can. “Sure.”
Fletcher is in jeans and a plain blue t-shirt, yet he’s walking around barefoot. It makes my stomach clench. I’ve always been a sucker for the jeans and bare feet combo. It’s nice to see him out of his usual messy work clothes too.
I stand awkwardly near the counter as he dishes up a piece of quiche. Everything about this place feels like a home, right down to the matching dishtowels hanging on the stove door.
He slips the plate into the microwave, then reaches for a mug. “I’m guessing you already had some coffee, but do you want more?”
“I haven’t actually, so yes, I’d love some.”
