Chapter 3
NAUDI
The second Walker’s truck rolls to a stop behind my store, I reach for the door handle. Pain shoots through my ribs before I even get it halfway open. I freeze, suck in a breath, and try again, slower this time. That doesn’t help much.
“Hold on.”
Walker is already closing his door before I can protest that I don’t need help. Which is a lie. I do, in fact, need help. Why does it have to be his? The gigolo.
I follow his movement as he comes around the front of the truck, and then he’s opening my door.
“I’ve got it,” I snap, sharper than I should have. He’s doing me a favor. Me and every other woman within the US borders.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
His calmness somehow makes his comment seem condescending.
I stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he’s being difficult on purpose.
He doesn’t look like he is. That’s the problem.
He never looks like he’s doing anything wrong.
He looks…handsome. Hot, even, in that good ole country boy slash Abercrombie model way.
I wonder how he would look with jet black eyeliner.
He’d had to literally pick me up with his large, muscley arms to get me into his big-ass truck. I need a different plan to get my feet back on the ground. I twist in my seat, intending to let my body slide down, when another sharp pain tears at my ribs.
He mumbles something under his breath about stubborn women and then I’m airborne and once again in his arms. With my good hand, I hang on to his neck. I have no idea how tall he is. Over six feet by my guesstimation, which is a very long way to the hard asphalt alley.
“Don’t drop me,” I mutter.
Something closely resembling amusement colors his expression. “I didn’t drop you before.”
“No, you hit me with a truck.”
He visibly flinches, and I feel bad for going there. “Too soon?”
“It will always be too soon. I could have killed you. The least you can let me do is carry you up a few steps.”
Few? It’s more like twenty-three, and every step pulls tighter at my ribs.
Walker waits until I nod before heading up the stairway.
I can feel the power in the way he carries me like I weigh nothing.
I’m not a fluffy girl, but I’m not a twig either.
I enjoy my food. Often. Plus, I’m short, so an extra five pounds look more like twenty on my five-foot, two-inch frame.
He smells good. I’ve never been this close to him before.
His scent reminds me of a sunny day. Fresh, clean, and floral.
But not a girly flower smell, more like grass and wood and something I can’t place.
The back of his neck is warm against my palm and his hair is well past his collar, like he hasn’t been bothered to have a trim lately.
I wonder what product he uses to keep it that soft.
He never once falters on the stairs, and I never feel insecure in his arms. In fact, I could easily burrow my head under his chin and take a nap. That sounds lovely actually.
What am I doing?
I stiffen, forcing space between us. I am not allowed to enjoy this moment in his arms. No. No. No. I need to think of all the other women he has dangling on his… line. There’s Caroline, Lily, and Sophie, that I know of. How many others are there and in how many states does he have women?
I pass him the key I’d held ready for him. As the door opens, I have a brief second of panic hoping I hadn’t left any bras and panties air drying within view. That would be embarrassing.
Luckily, everything is in order. He lets my feet drop gently to the ground, and my world tilts slightly to the left.
His hand comes out to steady me, and I push him away. The touchy-feely has to stop.
“Careful.”
“I’m fine,” I protest as stars circle my head, and I grip the kitchen counter.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I didn’t ask how I look.”
That shuts him up. Good. I wait until the room rights before I slowly take a step toward the bathroom, very aware of how every movement pulls at something that doesn’t want to be pulled.
Annoyingly, he stays within a few feet of me. I know he’s being kind and cautious should I stumble, a reality I have to admit. But it makes me angry.
Boundaries. We need them. This is my space. My rules. My control. I haven’t lived with a man since I was eighteen years old and my father kicked me out of my childhood home.
The entire length of my apartment can be traveled in ten steps. By the time I reach the bathroom door, I feel like I’ve run a marathon and have to turn and lean against the door.
“Let’s get one thing straight.” I look directly into his ocean blue eyes. “This is my place, and you being here is temporary.”
His gaze holds mine calmly and in a way that doesn’t match the situation. “I figured.”
His flippant answer only angers me more. Which is why I start laying down ridiculous rules.
“You don’t touch anything unless I tell you to.”
He nods. “Okay.”
“You don’t move things. I like things where I have them.”
“Alright.”
“No snooping. You don’t go through my stuff.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
I narrow my eyes. “You weren’t planning on announcing an engagement either.”
That lands. He rubs the back of his neck and then circles on his chest. His broad, hard chest where I swear I felt an eight-pack while I was in his arms.
“I said I’d fix that,” he replies.
“You don’t get it. It’s already too late. You can’t fix it.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Why not?”
“Because my parents are probably already on their way here from India.” I have no idea if that’s true, but it has exactly the impact I expected it to.
He stills. His eyes widen. “For what?”
“For our wedding, of course.”
With those parting words, I turn as quickly and as gracefully as I can and escape into the bathroom. Suddenly, a shower sounds amazing.
As hot water streams down my body, I’m disappointed it isn’t helping as I’d hoped it would.
That’s the entire point of a shower. Heat, steam, quiet. A chance to wash off the unsettling day I’d had and reset whatever went wrong between stepping off the curb and landing in a hospital bed.
Instead, all it does is make me more aware of every ache in my body.
My ribs protest every time I move. My wrist throbs in time with my pulse. Even my head feels heavy, like it doesn’t quite belong where it’s sitting.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile for a moment and close my eyes.
A fiancé.
Of all the ridiculous, impulsive, completely unnecessary things that man could have said… that’s what he chose.
Men have been changing the trajectory of my life since I was eighteen. Once again, here I go. Off to left field without having a single say in the matter.
My parents are probably packing. My father has already booked the flight. My mother has called my aunties and her close friends to tell them the “good” news. I haven’t seen my parents in over ten years, and this is what mends the rift between us. A hurtful rift that my father caused.
Why is marriage so important? Why isn’t being his daughter enough? Why isn’t my happiness his sole concern? Why aren’t my dreams worth following?
Those are the same questions I’ve been asking myself since the day I left his house.
My legs begin to shake, letting me know I’ve been in here long enough. I let out a slow breath and reach for the towel.
I have to fix this. I can’t allow my parents to fly all the way here for no reason. One phone call to my mother. One explanation. A firm, clear explanation will stop this snowball from becoming an avalanche.
Simple.
Except nothing about this situation feels simple.
I wrap the towel tighter around me and move carefully into the bedroom, dressing slower than usual because apparently even slipping a shirt over my head requires strategy now.
Forget about the bra. It was hard enough getting it off.
I’d never be able to snap it one-handed.
I choose a thicker, loose shirt, hoping Walker won’t notice.
By the time I sit on the edge of the bed, exhaustion hits me harder than I expected. The lilac and white comforter calls my name. Just for a minute, I tell myself. I’ll close my eyes for just a minute.
The fading light coming through the window has shifted by the time I wake. For a second, I don’t remember why I’m in bed. Then my ribs remind me, and everything else comes rushing back in.
I push myself up, wincing as my body protests the movement, and slowly, very slowly make my way toward the door.
When I step out of the bedroom and into the main space of my apartment, I freeze and, for more than a few seconds, wonder if I’m in someone else’s apartment.
My apartment…isn’t my apartment. Not the one I’d last seen a few hours ago to take a shower. There are grocery bags everywhere. On the counter. On the table. Enough to feed the whole town if I so choose. I don’t.
But the transformation doesn’t stop there.
My couch has been shoved against the wall.
My coffee table has also been moved and now instead of my travel books with pretty pictures, a large, imposing duffle bag sits open in their place.
That isn’t the most offensive change. Oh no, right in the center of my living space resides a queen-sized air mattress, three or four feet high. Enormous.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Trying to make sense out of what I’m looking at. And then I smell it. Something spicy, savory, and rich. My stomach, traitor that it is, responds immediately, reminding me I’d skipped breakfast and lunch. I’d only had a cup of tea before my whole life upended.
I turn and see Walker standing at my stove with a wooden spoon. He reaches into the left cabinet and grabs the garlic powder like he knows his way around my kitchen. Like it’s normal for him to be there in my space. Rearranging everything like he belongs there.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears me growl.
“Hey,” he says, as if we’re having a casual conversation and not standing in the aftermath of whatever this is. “You’re up.”
Well, isn’t he Captain Obvious. I don’t answer because I’m still trying to process the fact that my home has been… taken hostage. Against my explicit instructions. Did I or did I not tell him to leave my stuff alone? Yes. Yes, I did.
With a smile, he turns back to the stove, stirring something that smells delicious in a pan.
“The pain meds the doctor ordered were delivered,” he says. “They’re on the counter. You want one?”
I follow his nodding head to the small white pharmacy bag sitting beside the groceries.
Something doesn’t track. Everything is in disarray, yet it’s neatly organized.
My gaze travels a bit further and again I’m mystified.
A big bunch of wildflowers sits in the center of my old, scarred wooden table.
They are beautiful and something I would have picked out for myself. I’ve never been given flowers before. Ever. I don’t want to examine how that Mason jar filled with obviously hand-picked wildflowers makes me feel.
“No. I don’t want one.” That is a complete lie. I absolutely want one. Possibly two. But I’m not about to dull my senses around him. Not when I clearly need to be paying attention.
“Alright,” he says with a shrug.
That annoys me too. I take a step forward, more tentatively than I want to, my eyes moving over everything he’s touched. Moved. Changed.
“You went shopping,” I say, because stating the obvious feels safer than asking what on earth he thinks he’s doing.
“Yeah.”
Another simple could-care-less answer. Why say a full sentence when one syllable will do? That seems to be his motto.
“You moved my furniture.”
“I needed the space.”
“For what?” I ask stupidly with the answer sitting right in front of me. It’s hard to miss.
He nods toward the air mattress and goes back to stirring, satisfied the subject has been exhausted. It hasn’t.
“You thought you’d just, what… move in with me?”
“No, not moving in,” he says, still unbothered in a way that makes it impossible to argue with him. Then, like I’m a child who’s forgotten, he reminds me. “The doctor said you couldn’t be alone for seventy-two hours.”
“I know that. I hit my head; I don’t have memory loss. Or maybe I do because I don’t remember my house looking like this before I took a shower.”
He turns fully this time, leaning one hand on the counter, his gaze steady on me. “You were right. I won’t fit on the couch. And I took care of the grocery problem.”
I swing my stare to the groceries. “You bought all this?”
“You said you didn’t have food.”
“I said you would starve.”
“Same difference.”
“It’s not the same difference.”
He shrugs like it is. I take a step closer, more aware that everything feels slightly off-balance. “You don’t get to just come in here and decide what I need.”
“I didn’t decide. The doctor did.”
“That doesn’t mean?—”
“You need to eat,” he cuts in, not raising his voice, just stating the facts I need to consider. “You need rest. You need someone here in case you pass out or your head gets worse.”
Something about that rubs me the wrong way. I like it even less that he sounds so sure of it. “I was doing fine until you hit me with your truck.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does. And now I feel like the worst kind of person. Which I don’t like. At all. “I didn’t mean…” I start.
“I know,” he says.
Simple. No accusation. No edge. Just acceptance. That throws me more than anything else he’s done. I look at him for a second longer than I should. I just can’t figure the man out… or my reaction to him.
He’s standing in my kitchen, cooking us a meal that smells amazing and acts like being here is completely normal.
It feels like I’m losing control of my life. Of me. And I don’t like that feeling. “Next time…” I force my voice back into something steady. “You ask before you move things.”
He nods. “Next time.”
Yeah, right. “There won’t be a next time.”
A smile almost touches his mouth before he turns back to the stove. “Alright.”
Another one of his one-word answers shouldn’t strike me as a challenge, but it does. I have the uneasy feeling that I’m going to have to work a lot harder to keep things exactly the way I want them.