Margie reaches for my foot.
“Ow, ow, ow, fuck,” I hiss.
The next moment, I’m hefted up in Jack’s arms as he strides up the stairs.
15
“I made you tea,” Jack says stiffly, setting a mug on my coffee table. I silently curse the fates who thought it’d behilariousto have the guy who was kissing my cleavage twelve hours ago—the guy I sprained my ankle fleeing—also be the guy who insists on taking care of me as I convalesce. “There’s a cookie, too. Don’t eat lying down. And use the ice pack I gave you.”
For a moment, I ignore him, continuing to lie there on my sofa with my foot propped on a pillow, my head resting on several others Jack fluffed for me, and the ice pack in question on the coffee table. Then, like a recalcitrant teen, I pick up the cookie and purposefully take a bite while lying down. I regret it instantly when the crumbs fall down my throat and spark a coughing fit. I sit up. A sip of scalding hot tea to sort out my choking proves an equally bad idea.
The taste of the cookie barely registers as I take another, safer bite, and it’s not because I’ve burned my tongue. I can’t get the taste of Jack out of my mouth or comprehend the colossal lapse in judgment that led to us pawing each other in the storage closet at Avery’s party.
Still, there is a stirring of something as I relive bits of last night. I curse Jack again.I don’t like you much, either.Ugh. I can’t even dissect the situation properly without getting hot and bothered. Where is my self-respect?
Wait a second.
“Are these… Are these my hi-hat cookies?” I shout around a mouthful. “Where did you get them?” I glare over my sofa back into Jack’s apartment. He’s in the kitchen, drying a glass.
“Gence gave them to me.”
Oh. My. God.
My phone rings, saving Jack’s life. I answer via my earbuds, reluctantly tugging the ice pack onto my ankle.
“How are you feeling?” Margie asks.
“Better than before. Rest, ice, compress, elevate for the weekend. ER doc said it should be good after two to three days.” I gingerly rotate my ankle and wince. “I hope I don’t need to take Monday off.”
“You need to stay off it or it could get worse. Work can wait.”
I grunt.
“I’m serious. Pen, I know your dad’s shit left you and your mom in a rough place financially, but you’re not in that place anymore. You’ve got savings, you’ve got us, your job isn’t going to fire you if you take a beat to just recup—”
“Yeah, can we just change the subject?”
“Fine. Here’s a subject change. I can’t believe you chose to go to the ER with him over me.”
“I did no such thing.” I scowl. Jack isn’t visible in his apartment, which means he’s in his bathroom or bedroom. “He’s the last person I wanted to go with. But the party wasn’t over, Avery couldn’t leave, and I couldn’t have you abandon Avery just because I don’t know how to walk.”
“How is Florence Nightingale?” she asks. “No more sucking face?”
“How’s La doing?” I ask in return. She chuckles. In a whisper, I add, “We barely said a word to each other the entire time we were at the ER. And this morning it’s been the same, but he won’t leave me alone. He keeps trying to take care of me.”
“What a monster. Avery is driving his parents back to Massachusetts, and I have this photo shoot right now, but after—”
“Don’t stress it. I’ll survive.” I glare at the remains ofmycookie. “Florence may need you to take care of him when I’m done with him, though.”
Yesterday was awkward, but at least I had ankle pain to distract me from Jack’s cool and reserved, albeit aggressive, caretaking. Today, though I still can’t flee properly, my ankle is feeling loads better. I’ve been robbed of my shield.
This morning he showed up with an obscenely large first aid kit, one no single male should own, and insisted on rewrapping my ankle with an elastic compression bandage. The memory of his hand gently cradling my foot has me scowling.
“Are you hungry?” Jack asks from his side of The Hole, his face an aloof mask. I want to pinch him, just to see something other than that blank stare when I’m still so unsettled.
“No.” I am a ravenous liar. “But I do want you to tell me why you’re being nice to me,” I snap.
“Masochist, clearly.” At my look, he runs a hand across the back of his neck. “I feel responsible. If we hadn’t been—”
