“You should have let me drive you,” I say as I finally match his stride.
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Walking’s good for the heart.”
“Even after a seizure? Because my training says?—”
“You’re not a doctor. You’re a firefighter.”
“I’m also an EMT, and my training,” I repeat very slowly, “taught me that you shouldn’t be trying to, like, walk marathons or whatever after your brain was just shorting out.”
The tendon in his jaw clenches and relaxes several times before he answers me. “It’s around the block. And walkingisgood for me. I walk the neighborhood twice a day.”
“It is nice here,” I confess. I got lucky with my house. It was a run-down foreclosure that needed a shitload of work bysomeone who has way more time than me, but I don’t mind having projects for my days off.
They keep my brain occupied and prevent me from spiraling into thoughts like how I’m probably going to die alone, surrounded by crows.
And speaking of… “I’m sorry the birds fucked up your trash. I can clean it up.”
After a small sigh, he shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”
My hand darts out and grabs his arm like it has a mind of its own, and he stops so abruptly, I almost crash right into him. His eyes catch mine, and in that moment, I can’t read his expression.
Is he shocked?
Pissed?
Horny?
Yeah, not a chance on that last one, but a guy can dream. He’s not exactly husband material, but if ever I were going to break my literal lifetime dry spell, I bet he’d be good in bed. He’s so…intense. So focused.
He seems like the kind of guy who’d hunt out an orgasm like it was his fucking sole purpose in life.
He seems like the guy I wouldn’t regret losing my virginity to.
“Can you stop touching me?”
I whip my hand back and slap it against the back of my neck. “Shit, sorry. I’m…I don’t mean to be so handsy.”
“It’s fine,” he grunts. He’s obviously not fine.
We resume walking again, and after a long, tense pause, I clear my throat. “When we get to your house, I’m going to pick up the trash. I didn’t send the crows after you, and I really wasn’t mad about the spaghetti…”
“Carbonara,” he corrects.
My jaw drops open as I watch the smallest smile hide in the corner of his mouth. “Oh, fuck you.”
He laughs. Fuck, he has such a beautiful laugh, and that’s twice in one day. Why does it feel like I’ve won the lottery?
“When I’m done cleaning up the mess,” I tell him once his laughter dies down a bit, “I’m going to come into your house and make sure you’re laying down.” He sucks in a breath, and I hold up a hand. “If you don’t go straight to bed, I’m going to call Easton and tell him everything that happened.Everything.”
Including the pasta.
He stops walking and stares at me like he’s daring himself to call my bluff. Then, after a long pause, his entire body seems to relax. And when we walk again, just for a second, he sways into me.
“Fine,” he mutters.
I try to hide my grin, but I’m pretty sure I fail. “You sure?”
“Yes.” He sounds like he had to pay a high cost to give me that one word, but I don’t care. He takes another breath, then says, “I’ll be good.”
