CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Hardy
W as that a yelp?
Does she need help?
I sit in my great room and contemplate whether I should go and see. She’s fine. I know she is because I’ve checked on her every thirty minutes for the past six hours. I made sure her chest was rising and falling because yes, the image of her on the floor still plays on a nonstop loop in my head.
Isn’t that part of the reason I brought her here? So that I knew she’d be okay?
I strain to hear if there’s any more movement down the hall. The urge is real to go check on her yet again—just in case—but my focus is greeted with the click open of her bedroom door.
I stay where I am. From the fight she put up with me just trying to carry her groggy arse up here, I’m completely aware the woman doesn’t want anyone to know she needs anything—help, coddling, anything.
Bloody hell.
It’s my first thought, my only thought, as she shuffles down my hallway toward where I’m seated.
She’s gorgeous. Bedhead. Pillow creases in her cheeks, and zero care that she has either. Her face is still a tad pale, but pale still beats out the sallow tinge it had.
Even ill, she’s stunningly sexy in a way I’ve never defined sexy before, and I’m not exactly sure what to do with that knowledge or how to suppress the pressure mounting in my chest. Because while I haven’t shied away from dating the same woman for an extended period, I have steered clear of the emotions that come with it. Emotions that I imagine cause that kind of pressure and ache in one’s chest.
And yet ... here I am with just that.
She looks around her as she walks. There’s an awareness to her that’s mixed with a slight sense of awe as she takes in my place. Appreciative but with a complete lack of reverence like this material shit doesn’t matter to her.
Should I have expected anything different? No.
But this is what I live in every day—the opulence, the extravagance. I should have considered what it all might look like through her eyes and I didn’t. I should have wondered if it would make her look at me differently when she’s already fighting me tooth and nail.
My thoughts dissipate when she looks up, meets my eyes, and offers me a sheepish, sleepy smile with zero vanity whatsoever.
I’m sucker-punched in more ways than one.
She reaches for the chair beside her and wobbles, her knuckles turning white. Here I am admiring how gorgeous she is like a prat while she’s standing there in pain.
“Good afternoon,” I say rising from my seat and moving toward her to pull the chair out so she can sit down.
“Afternoon?” Her eyes widen.
“Why don’t you sit down while I get you some pain meds? You’re overdue for them. I just didn’t want to wake you.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. I shouldn’t be here.” She starts to stand, and I push her shoulders back down. “Hardy. You’ve wasted more than enough time on me. I have the academy to get back to. Bills to pay. My apartment to ... I just have a lot.” I’m not quite sure why tears well in her eyes, but I can sense the overload of emotion hitting her.
Normally that’s my first cue to walk the fuck away. Instead, I squat down in front of her. The need to touch her owns me, and I give into it. I run the back of my hand down her cheek and smile reassuringly. “All of that’s handled. There’s nothing for you to worry about. You’re staying here where I can keep an eye on you and make sure you’re okay.”
“I don’t want to impose. You have a life to live and I’m impeding on it. You can’t possibly want to play nurse—”
“You’re staying, Whitney. End of story. You just got out of the hospital. You almost died . There is no wiggle room on this.”
“I have other people who can look out for me. Really .”
Like who is on the tip of my tongue, but I catch it before it’s said. I meet her eyes though, and she knows the truth. She doesn’t have anyone else. When you’re an orphan, you don’t have a family to lean on when you need help. You have no one.
And that’s more than apparent by the pain that flashes through her eyes. The acknowledged loneliness. The lasting abandonment.
Christ. I never quite thought of it that way.
And sure, Suri offered to take care of her, but she has a regular job in an office that’s an hour commute from here. I have the means, and honestly, I wanted to.
Her staying elsewhere wasn’t an option. It still isn’t.
“Again. Thank you.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“I don’t want you to thank me. I just want you to be you . Stop apologizing. Tell me to go away . Argue with me. Something. Anything . Just so I know you’re going to be okay.” My hands fist as she stares at me from across the room. Collect yourself, Hardy . My voice is softer when I speak this time. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing.”
“But the academy ...,” she says and looks around somewhat disoriented.
“Is fine. Martin has things handled. He’s very competent and more than willing to do more. Between the two of us, we have it covered.”
“That’s not necessary. The school is overloaded as it is with the influx of new kids and attention. You have a full schedule and a game to get ready for. I’m fine. I can sit in a chair in the office and work.”
My smile is quick and unforgiving. “You don’t have a say in the matter. You’re here, and you’re staying until you get the all-clear from the doctor to return to work.” I rise from my haunches and move toward the kitchen where her meds are.
“I need my cell in case he needs me. I need—”
“Suri accidentally forgot to give it to you when we left. She’s dropping it off at the academy later. I’ll get it for you.”
“Apparently I can’t say thank you, but ... thank you.”
There’s a little bit of that defiance. Good to see.
“In the meantime, I went shopping to try and get you whatever it is you might need. It’s all on the dresser in there. I’m not the greatest at it, shit really, so just tell me what else you need, and I’ll get it for you.”
Talk about being massively overwhelmed as I stood in the stores and tried to figure out what to get her. Many tips were given out to the clerks. Big tips. It’s the first and only time I’ve ever thought the American tipping precedent was worth it.
“I don’t need any of it,” she says softly. “You’ve gone through too much trouble as it is already.”
“God, you’re infuriating,” I toss at her, more because I hate seeing her this way. Weak. Apologetic.
“Infuriating? Says the man who’s angry at me. You wonder why I keep asking for you to take me home?”
“Angry at you?” I fist my hands on the counter and count to three before looking back up at her. “Do you realize that you scared the shit out of me? That you ... that you were lying there and I thought you were dead?” I clear my throat to try and hide the break in my voice. I don’t know why I’m angry, maybe because I felt so fucking helpless, and now that she’s okay, I can process it. Fuck if I know. “I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated with you. You were hurting that bad and thought so little of me, that I was that shallow, that you’d rather have me drop you off at a random place rather than your real house? That you’d rather risk your health and life than open the door that fucking much and let me in. To tell me you were hurting that bad so I could help you?” I pace the room, running a hand through my hair while trying to rein in my emotions.
“It wasn’t that.”
“It was that,” I shout and grip the back of my neck with my hands. My thoughts race, my head spins, and every part of me just ... feels when that’s not ever fucking possible. “You make it so frustratingly hard for someone to love you. It’s fucking maddening.”
She stares at me doe-eyed and lips lax. “Hardy.” My name is a whisper.
“No. It’s fine. It’s what the fuck ever.” I hold my hands up. “You have a whole damn wing of this place to yourself. That should be more than enough.” I set her pills down. “Now here, take your pain meds.”
Her hand touches mine when I hand her some water, and she keeps it there for a second. Almost as if she’s saying she understands and was just as worried as I was. It’s enough for me for now.
I stand there to make sure she takes them, her eyes on me the entire time she does.
“Right now, all you need to think about is resting.”
And as if on fucking cue, her eyes flutter and roll up a little bit as she sways.
“Fuck,” I grit out. I pick her up, cradle her in my arms, and start to walk toward the bedroom.
“No. I’m fine. Hardy. Stop.”
“Are you going to fight me every step of the way?” I ask as I enter her bedroom. “Because this is going to be a long few weeks.”
I set her down on the bed and help her swing her legs onto the mattress.
“I don’t like being taken care of,” she says groggily.
And I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to take care of someone more.
I stare at her as her breathing evens out and her muscles slowly relax.
My own words come back to me. Ones I spoke in the heat of the moment.
You make it so frustratingly hard for someone to love you. It’s fucking maddening.