Page 63

Nothing but hollow silence.

He walked each floor, but came up with nothing. The guy was long gone.

Halfway up the stairwell back to Addison, his phone buzzed. He glanced down. More messages from his siblings, his parents—all asking him how he’s feeling, all asking when he’s coming home.

He’d send them a group text later, assure them he was fine.

Sometime tonight.

Chapter 33

Just over an hour later, they were home, and he was opening her door and unbuckling her like she was a sick child.

She’d never really had that—someone to fuss over her when she was ill. When she’d been a kid, Mom and Dad were occupied with the other couple, or at parties, or away on trips. The babysitters changed often, and then stopped getting hired altogether, leaving her, Roman, and Kyle to fend for themselves. Whenever she got sick, she only had herself to depend on. Once, she’d dislocated her thumb in a basketball game with the neighbor kids. She had popped it back into place herself.

But it felt nice, having Oliver swoop her up into the safety of his arms and take her upstairs to their bedroom.

His bedroom, she corrected herself.

Her room was downstairs, and that was where he should really be putting her.

When he brought out a clean pair of pajama pants and one of his cotton tees from the drawer, she let him dress her. The fabric was well-worn and soft against her skin.

“All right, here we go.” He rearranged the covers around her. “I’m going to make you some chamomile tea.”

Chamomile tea sounded nice. As long as she didn’t get used to it. “I should go back to my room. I’ll get you sick.”

Oliver didn’t seem to care, plopping himself next to her like he had every right, and taking her hand in his. She attempted to let go, but he held firm.

“I mean it, Oliver. You don’t want to catch this.”

His thumb traced over each knuckle. “Can you let someone take care of you for a change?”

He had to go there, didn’t he? Unsettled that he’d speak to her deepest, most secret desire, she turned away from him. She could take care of herself, thank you very much.

Oliver released a small sound of amusement and rose from the bed.

Good. They needed some distance. Last night and today had been an emotional roller coaster. Better to take some time and remember what they were to each other.

Specifically, nothing.

***

When Oliver returned twenty minutes later to check on her, Addison had dozed off. Opening the window a sliver to let in fresh air, he left the door ajar so he could hear her when she stirred.

She’d be hungry soon. Maybe he could make soup. Chicken, noodles, vegetables—the whole shebang. Once, he’d loved cooking. After the accident, he’d stopped, like he’d stopped most things. Too achy, too frustrated, too tired.

But as he stood at the counter, chopping vegetables, adding seasonings, he had to admit… this felt good. Almost how things used to be.

The progress had been so gradual he’d missed it happening. But his concentration was sharper. His headaches were annoying, but no longer as frequent. He was on the mend. And he had to be grateful for that.

Maybe he’d be ready to teach again when this business with Yarrow was done.

The soup simmered on the stovetop. Too restless to eat, he returned upstairs to check on Addy, sliding his palm along her warm, but no longer dangerously so, brow.

Wrapped up in his sheets, covered by his blanket, she looked like she belonged there.

Don’t get used to it.