I stepped closer, lowering my voice so it wouldn’t carry beyond the two of us. “You mean the orderly job that Doyle used to have?”
“That would be the one.”
My stomach did something complicated. Doyle. The man Knox had beaten half to death for some mysterious reason. The reason Knox still refused to explain.
“And you didn’t tell me this last week?”
Knox paused mid-mop. “I applied for it last week, but it didn’t get solidified until this weekend.”
“This weekend.” I repeated the words slowly, something clicking into place. “So, when you told me on Friday that you’d see me Monday … you didn’t actually have this job yet.”
He said nothing. Just watched me with those unreadable eyes.
“Yet you made it sound certain that you’d see me today.”
No reply.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “How exactly were you planning to see me today if this hadn’t worked out?”
The mop stilled in his hands. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, that tell I was starting to recognize—the one that meant he was hiding something.
And then it hit me. Was I right last week? Thinking that punch to his face was intentional?
It couldn’t have been. It was ridiculous to even think he’d put himself through that to come here.
“Never mind.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Except it did matter. Because now Knox Blackwood would be here every single day, and I was going to have to pretend that didn’t affect me.
“And what exactly does an infirmary orderly do?” I asked, knowing some basics, but now intensely interested in details. Namely, the details of how frequently I’d be around Knox.
Knox resumed mopping, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each stroke. I tracked the movement without meaning to. Noticed the way his hands gripped the handle—strong, sure, capable of violence but choosing something else instead.
“Mop floors. Sanitize exam rooms between patients. Wipe down gurneys, exam tables, chairs.” He paused, those spellbinding eyes lifting to meet mine. “Restock supplies.”
The words landed with intention.
Restock supplies.
The supply closet. The one past the inmate waiting area. The one I’d had to walk past alone when that CO abandoned his post. The one where two inmates had cornered me before Knox intervened.
“Going to the supply closet,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “so you don’t have to.”
Something warm bloomed behind my ribs. Something I immediately tried to smother.
“And so you decided now was a good time to get a job?” I kept my tone clinical. Detached. Like my heart wasn’t doing something stupid in my chest.
“Already had one,” he said. “Kitchen duty. Replaced it starting today.”
“Is the kitchen a bad assignment?”
Knox scrubbed his stubbled jaw with one hand. “No. Probably had twenty inmates fighting for my spot this morning.”
“Why? What’s so great about the kitchen?”
“Perks.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Namely, you can sneak bites of food when nobody’s looking.”
I stared at him.
