I squeeze my eyes closed, pinching the bridge of my nose until the pain dissipates. “I’m fine. Since the accident, I get these headaches, and they’re always worse after therapy. But it’s not too bad.”
When I open my eyes, he’s frowning, but it’s more worried than pissed.
“Lie down.”
“I’m fine, really. I don’t want to be?—”
“Este.” He says my name in that soft, demanding way that makes me want to say yes to whatever he’s asking. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.
“Maybe for a little while,” I grumble, stepping toward the couch.
“Until you feel better,” he corrects as I lie down. It’scomfier than I expected for a fancy sofa bed. “Can I get you anything? Painkillers?”
“Would you mind bringing me the blue pouch that’s on my nightstand, please? And my Kindle. It should be on the bed.”
Nico nods, handing me not one, but two blankets before disappearing upstairs. He comes back a few moments later with my Kindle, the pouch, and Amelia Bearhart.
“Thought you might want her,” he says as he passes them over. He thought right. I’m old enough not toneeda stuffed animal to comfort me, but it helps. Before the crash, she sat on a shelf in my room, and I hadn’t touched her in years. Recently, though, she grounds me.
“Thank you,” I say, hugging her tight against my chest.
“I’ll just be in the kitchen. Call me if you need anything, angel.”
Angel.He’s used the nickname a few times since he woke me up and held me, and every time, it makes me feel conflicting things. Touched, that “angel” was the nickname that came to mind in the heat of the moment when he was trying to calm me down. And incredibly turned on, because such a soft word in such a low, commanding tone is the second hottest thing I think I’ve heard—next to him saying my name.
Like I said: conflicting. Almost as conflicting as how I feel about him taking care of me. On one hand, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. Ilikelooking after myself. I always have, but even more so after the crash, because I’m so grateful that I didn’t lose that independence.
On the other hand, it feels good to do what he tells meand let him hold the reins. It feels good to know I can switch off a little and trust him to keep everything in hand.
I take a cooling forehead patch from the blue pouch. When I first got out of the hospital, they gave me all sorts of painkillers, but I didn’t like how they made me feel. Nightmares are bad enough when you’re asleep, but the medication made me so woozy that I could never tell what was real and what was made worse by my anxiety. The patches take the edge off, and as long as I avoid bright lights and loud noises, the headaches usually get better after a few hours.
The tingling relief is instant as I stick the patch to my forehead. I snuggle in under the blankets and turn on my Kindle, lowering the brightness. Falling asleep while reading isn’t like me, and I must have turned the page last night in my sleep, because I have to go back a few pages to find the last thing I remember reading. I can’t believe I fell asleep in the middle of a sex scene. Damn.
I’ve gotten used to reading with Nico moving around as background noise, but readingthiswhile I can hear the splash of the sink as he washes dishes is a problem. It’s so easy to imagine us in place of the couple in the book. Would Nico be as rough and demanding as the man on the page? He’s been so soft with me, but picturing him slipping into a less-gentle role isn’t hard. It’s just completely inappropriate. Reckless.
But something Sloane said the other day keeps replaying in my head:“You’re probably never going to see him again. What’s the worst that could happen?”
And Rebeccadidsuggest I find something fun to do. Granted, I’m not sure she’d approve of this particular kindof fun. But is there really any harm in turning on the charm a little around Nico to see if he seems interested? I might end up embarrassing myself, but I can always claim a temporary lack of judgment as a side effect of the crash.
And if he is interested… a month stuck here might go by faster than either of us expected.
8
NICO
“What are you making?”
I jump as Este’s voice hits me before her footsteps. Because she’s walking around barefoot, in another sweatshirt and shorts combination that is testing my resolve.
Last night, for the first time, neither of us bothered to go upstairs to our rooms. Her headache faded quickly after she rested for a while, then poured some black coffee over ice and chugged it in a way that reminded me of college.
She fell asleep earlier, lying down on the sofa bed, facing me. I lay opposite her, staring at her for longer than is reasonable. I told myself I was looking for any signs of a nightmare, but I was just looking, cataloguing the details of her face. She didn’t have a full nightmare, but she whimpered a few times. And when I placed my hand on her cheek to calm her down, her frown melted into a soft smile that made my heart race.
Then she went upstairs to “get ready” and came down half an hour later with bare legs. I busied myself in the kitchen, so I had space to breathe. And now she’s here. With bare legs. Jesus.
“Bread,” I answer, my tone shorter than it should be. It doesn’t deter Este, though. She sidles up beside me.
“From scratch?”
