He shrugged. “I’ll make do.”
“No,” I said firmly. “No, if you won’t go home, then you can spend the night with me.”
A small smile tugged at his lips. “If I knew you’d invite me to spend the night, I’d have gotten punched in the face sooner.”
I snorted. “Not funny, Bailey.”
“A little funny,” he argued.
“My house is only a few blocks away. You can follow me over. I’ll get you some ice for that eye.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ve got a killer headache kicking in.”
“No fucking wonder,” I grumbled. “That asshole decked you good. I just hope you don’t have a concussion.”
“He didn’t hit me that hard,” Bailey said. “I’m just dehydrated. I skipped dinner, and I’ve had one soda all night.”
Shit. He really wasn’t taking care of himself, was he? Good thing he was coming home with me. I’d treat him to a sandwich, some water, and some painkillers. With any luck, he’d be in better shape in the morning.
“You need a keeper,” I told him as he opened his car door and slid inside.
“You volunteering?” he asked, looking up at me through a fall of hair.
If only I could. Because this guy clearly needed someone watching his six. Bailey was trouble and temptation all wrapped up in one irresistible package.
But resist him, I would. There was no other choice. Not after what I’d done.
Bailey deserved far better than the likes of me.
CHAPTER 11
Bailey
Flynn’s placewasn’t what I expected. I kind of thought it’d be empty and lonely, but it had a cozy, lived-in vibe that was nice.
He’d set up a bookshelf against the living room wall. There were dozens of titles, mostly science fiction and self-help, by the looks of it. A couple of trade mechanic magazines lay on the coffee table, which had been stained in a dark, swirly pattern, and a blanket was draped over the arm of the sofa, as if he often snuggled up there.
Flynn pushed me down on the couch, which was familiar, its lumps a terrain I’d navigated for years. “Isn’t this…”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed. “Axel said I could have it.”
“Sure. Of course.”
We’d moved it to the junkyard after Emory brought his newer sofa into the house. I’d always liked this couch, though. It was old, yes, but long and cushy. It had held all of us better than Emory’s shorter, more stylish sofa too.
“Wait here,” Flynn said, turning to head into the kitchen a few feet away. A breakfast bar separated the rooms in an otherwise open floor plan.
I watched him open the freezer, and my eye gave a pulse of pain, reminding me that I had taken a punch to the face like an idiot. I picked up a magazine to distract myself—glimpsing an article about the evolution of car design—but my damn eye was swelling shut, and my other one didn’t like the strain of doing all the work.
I tossed it back down and pressed my fingers to the tender flesh under my eye instead. Becausethatwould make it feel better.
“Don’t poke at it,” Flynn said as he returned, a bag of frozen green beans in his hand.
“Aren’t you supposed to use peas?” I asked. “Or, like, raw steak or some shit. That’s what they do on TV.”
“This is all I’ve got.” He took a seat beside me on the sofa and lifted the bag to my face, pressing it gently against the swelling. I hissed at the cold burn against my skin.
“Give it a moment,” he said softly. “It’ll go numb.”
