“Thank you.” Sutton’s gaze drops to her wrapped palm. “How much?—”
“Nope,” Jamal says instantly, wagging a finger. “You’re with Shep. That means you’re one of ours now.”
Sutton stiffens again. “I’m not?—”
Jamal interrupts, friendly but firm. “I don’t care what you are. I’m not sending you into the world with a busted hand because you’re stubborn.”
Sutton’s mouth tightens like she wants to argue. I squeeze her fingers once to remind her everything is fine and she stops.
Jamal glances at me like he approves, then starts cleaning up. “You good, Shep?”
I nod. “Yeah. I appreciate it.”
Jamal steps closer and playfully adds, “This one’s going to keep you on your toes. You better be good to her.”
Translation: This girl looks beat down. Don’t fuck it up and make it worse for her.
“She already does. And I promise.”
Because being good to her isn’t the same as fixing her, and Sutton doesn’t need a man who thinks he can fix her. She needs a place to land. She needs kindness and compassion and support. That’s different. Those are all things I’m more than capable of providing.
We say our goodbyes to Jamal and I guide Sutton out of the exam room, my hand at her back. In the hallway, her shoulders sag, exhaustion crashing in now that pain and adrenaline have eased.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She lets out a humorless breath. “Define okay.”
“How about for now, we define it as still breathing.”
“Barely.”
I nod like that’s fair. When we reach the lobby, she stops suddenly, staring at the Rush logo on the wall like it’s mocking her.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispers.
“What is?”
“Me. Being here. You doing this. All of it.” Her throat bobs. “I’m not…I’m not your responsibility.”
I step closer, keeping my tone gentle and certain. “You’re right.” Her eyes widen, like she expected a fight, so I continue, “You’re not my responsibility.”
She exhales sharply, relief and hurt colliding in her expression. “But I’m still going to help you,” I add calmly, “because I want to.”
Her lips part and she looks like she might cry, but instead, she looks away and mutters, “That’s…annoying.”
I smile a little. “I get that a lot.”
“I could use a restroom. Is there one nearby?”
I point just down the hall from where we’re standing. “Right down there on the left-hand side. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
While she’s in the restroom, I pull out my phone and make a quick call to the one person I know who might be able to help with one of the other issues Sutton mentioned.
Mackenzie Adams, the team’s head chef, picks up on the second ring. “If you’re calling to ask me for a last-minute gluten-free menu again, the answer is no.”
I rub my forehead. “It’s not about gluten, Mack.”
