“Lexy.” I catch her hand before she can throw the blanket off. Not restraining. Just steadying. “You need rest. And you need a roof over your head.”
Her body goes still, breath shallow, eyes locked on mine.
I reach for the soup already sitting on the bedside table and help her sit up, sliding an extra pillow behind her back. She takes a few careful sips, hands shaking slightly, then pushes the bowl away.
“That’s all I can manage.”
“You need food to heal, Tinker.” I nudge the bowl back toward her.
Her brows knit together. “Why do you call me that?”
I shrug. “Small. Blue eyes, light blonde hair.” I tilt my head. “You’ve got Tinkerbell written all over you.”
She sighs, clearly unimpressed. “I donotlook like Tinkerbell. And I hate that nickname.”
She takes one last sip of soup, then pushes the bowl back again. This time, I let it go and hand her the Tylenol with a glass of water.
“Tinker.”
She shoots me her best hate-filled glare. Fever or not, it’s impressive. I grin.
There it is.
That spark.
Even half-dead, she’s got fight in her.
She swallows the pills and wipes her mouth. I watch her for a second, not sure if I want to know about her nightmares or her current situation more, then ask, “Why were you sleeping in your car?”
Her expression changes immediately. The edge disappears, replaced by something wary.
“I…” She shakes her head and looks down at her hands, fingers twisting together. “I just need to find a job. Then I can find a place of my own.” She shrugs, like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t terrify her.
“You already have a job,” I say.
She looks up slowly. “You fired me. Remember?”
One brow lifts, and for a second she really does look like Tinkerbell, defiant and unimpressed.
“I thought it over,” I say. “I want to give you another chance.”
Her gaze drops again. “I don’t need your pity.” Her voice firms, even though her hands still shake. “I can take my things and be out of your hair in an hour. As soon as the Tylenol works and my fever goes down, I…”
“You’re not going anywhere.” The growl slips out before I can soften it.
She stiffens. “Are you forcing me to stay with you?” She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring up at me. “That’s kidnapping, you know.”
“You’re free to go,” I say evenly. “But your car’s broken down. Your tank’s empty. You’ve got no money. And you’re running a fever.”
She exhales sharply. “I can sleep in my car and…”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve got a perfectly good guest room. I need a waitress. And you need a job.” I lift a shoulder. “Work for me for three months. Save up. Then find an apartment you can actually afford. And if you hate working for me, I’ll help you find something else.”
Even as I say it, something in me tightens.
Three months means she stays.
Means she’s here.
