Chapter 4
WALKER
The table is too small for two people, if one of them is my size.
Two dinner plates barely fit on the surface.
There are two mismatched chairs, but it is obvious that the table is meant for one.
It’s one of those useless tables a person can sit at and drink a cup of coffee or have a sandwich.
The wood is worn in places, the edges softened from years of use, and one leg is shorter than the others giving it the slightest wobble when you lean on it.
I suppose the table size matches everything else in Naudi’s apartment. My sister Caroline would call it eclectic. Naudi is small, so her home suits her. Simple. Functional. No extra space for anything she doesn’t need.
I pull the chair out for her without thinking. It’s what I’d been taught early in life. I did it for my mom and sisters and for the occasional dates.
Naudi pauses, her head tipped as if she isn’t sure what to make of such a simple courtesy. Then she sits. Carefully, I notice. She’s still in pain. Stubborn woman should take a pain pill.
I lower myself into the seat across from her. “Eat while it’s hot.”
She looks down at the food, then back up at me, suspicion still right there in her eyes. It doesn’t seem to matter that I’ve filled her kitchen with groceries or cooked her a meal. I have a feeling I could build her a house and she’d still look at me the same way.
She picks up her fork, takes a bite, and chews slowly. I wait. And wait. Then she nods.
“This is very good.”
The tenseness that always lurks in my chest eases. “Thanks.”
She takes another bite, then glances up at me again, studying me. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“My mom.”
She sits back slightly, being cautious of her ribs. “I’ve never seen a man cook.”
That surprises me. “Never?”
“No,” she clarifies. “In my house, growing up, the kitchen belonged to the women. My father wouldn’t have known where anything was. And even if he did, he wouldn’t have touched it.”
“My mom didn’t give us that option,” I say. “She made sure all of us could cook something before we left the house.”
“All of you?”
“Me and my sisters.”
Her brows lift a little at that. “I like your mother already.”
“She passed ten years ago.” The words come out before I can stop them.
Her expression softens immediately. “I’m sorry.”
I nod once. “It’s all right.” Everyone always says that, but I can never figure out what they’re sorry for. It isn’t their fault she couldn’t beat cancer. Maybe they’re sorry for those left behind. Our family has never been the same since the person that glued us all together is no longer here.
“After my sisters moved out, I had to figure out more than a few dishes if my dad and I were going to eat. That man is dangerous and useless in the kitchen. Of course, that could have been his plan all along. You know, to get me to do all the cooking. He can make two things, but that’s it.”
That earns me the smallest smile. A real smile. She is a beautiful woman, especially when she smiles.
“You and your father live together?”
“Yeah.”
She takes that in along with another fork full of food. She chews, swallows, and asks, “What about your sisters?”
“Caroline is the oldest. She’s married, has two girls. They live in Florida. Lily’s in Tennessee. She’s a nurse and is married and they have a little boy. Ethan is five. Sophie’s married, lives in Ohio, and they are expecting their first around Christmas.”
I won’t tell her that I think her underwear is the reason for that unexpected Christmas gift.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until I catch her watching me. Her mouth twitches, and then she laughs out loud and looks down at her plate with a silly grin still on her face. What I said wasn’t funny. I run my response about my sisters back through my head. Nope. “What’s so funny?”
She shakes her head and snickers. “Nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing. It sounds like you think my sisters are funny.”
She shakes her head again, still smiling to herself. “You’re going to think I’m ridiculous.”
“Probably, but go ahead.”
She hesitates, then sighs. “Fine. But you can’t get offended.”
Now I’m really curious. “I’ll do my best.”
She sets her fork down. “I thought you were buying lingerie for multiple women. You know, that you were involved with. Romantically.”
I stare at her, trying to decide if she’s serious. “You what?”
“You came into my store three different times,” she continues with a grin. “You placed three orders for different sizes, and gave me three different women’s names and addresses. All of the orders were of my sexiest designs. What was I supposed to think?”
Understanding hits all at once, I grimace. “I told them I didn’t want to buy their dang underwear. But sisters know how to wear you down and get their way.”
My frown is slowly replaced by a smile tugging at my lips. “Is that why you’re mad at me every time you see me?”
She presses her lips together, trying not to react. “I thought you were a…a…gigolo. You sent intimate clothing to three different women.”
Our eyes meet, smiles growing along with our realization of the situation, and then we both can’t hold back our laughter.
For the rest of the meal, our conversation isn’t stilted or awkward like before. I even find myself enjoying her company. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation I was interested in with a woman.
As the meal progresses, I notice her movements slowing. She doesn’t hold her fork as high, and there’s a slight shake as she puts it to her mouth. When her shoulders begin to sag and her eyes start to cloud, I can’t take it any longer.
“Want me to get you a pain pill?”
She stares at her plate and shakes her head. “No. You cooked. I’ll clean up. Then maybe I’ll take one before I go to bed.”
“No.” The word comes out firmer than I intended.
Her weary eyes look up at me and while a truce of sorts has been called, that spark of irritation is back. “I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were. What you are… is recovering from being hit by a truck. If you’re suffering and in pain, you aren’t allowing your body to heal. You don’t get an award for toughing it out.”
Her mouth opens and then closes. She’s trying to come up with an argument, but she knows I’m right.
I get up, grab the white bag from the counter, and set it beside her plate before I refill her water glass. “Take one of the pain pills.”
“I want to stay clearheaded.”
“Clearheaded and in pain. That’s not going to do you any favors.”
That results in a heated look tossed my way, but it doesn’t have the same disdain as before. Maybe we’re making progress. “Take the pill,” I urge, quieter this time. “Get a book and curl up on that tiny couch of yours if you don’t want to go to bed.”
She scrutinizes me long enough that I begin to wonder what she’s looking for. Then she pushes her chair back slowly. “Fine.” She reaches for the bag.
I gather our plates and silverware and head to the sink.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her swallow the pill with a healthy gulp of water and then inch her way to standing.
I’m ready to grab her if she’s unsteady on her feet, but she shuffles her way to the bookcase, takes a paperback down, and settles onto the couch.
Hum, the couch actually looks comfortable when she sits on it. Must be a size thing.
I make quick work of cleaning the kitchen.
I even put away the groceries. I’d given my dad a list of a few things to get, but he showed up with a week’s worth of food.
I’ll admit some of his choices are stellar, like the ice cream and chocolate bars.
I never would have considered getting them, but my sisters swear those two items can cure almost anything.
The next time I check on Naudi, she’s slumped over and her book is resting on her chest while she’s sound asleep.
There’s a small amount of saliva on her bottom lip, the sight of which puts a grin on my face.
If she were my sister, I’d have taken a picture to use for future blackmail needs.
She’s not my sister, and the way I feel about her is far from brotherly.
The tiny woman is probably going to be mad at me again because I take the liberty of going into her bedroom and turning down her bed.
Back in the other room, I move her book and pick her up.
She’s completely dead weight in my arms, which isn’t very heavy at all.
She can’t weigh much over a hundred pounds.
Her head rolls to my chest, and I get another whiff of her hair. And just like when I was carrying her up the stairs, the scent does weird things to me. One of my sisters’ romance novels would have described it as there was movement from my dick, or some such ridiculousness as that.
I will never admit to reading their books. Or liking them. Or having favorite romance authors.
Gently, I lay her on her bed, again noticing she’s not wearing a bra. That was very obvious the moment she’d walked into the room after her nap. Being a gentleman, I’d tried not to stare. Being a red-blooded man, I hadn’t succeeded.
I cover her up, turn off the bedside lamp, and tell myself to get out of there. I know what happens in those books when there’s forced proximity. I end up standing there longer than I should, looking down at her.
It’s strange seeing her like this. Quiet. Peaceful. Not glaring at me as if she’d happily shove me out the nearest window if she thought she could do it one-handed.
Her long dark hair has fallen over one cheek. I reach down before I think better of it and brush it back. Soft. So soft. She doesn’t stir.
“Stubborn woman, waiting so long to get some relief,” I mutter, though there isn’t much heat behind it.
She looks younger asleep. Less guarded. Less ready to fight. Or maybe I’ve just never seen her without all those walls in place.
I reluctantly turn and go back into the main room, leaving the door slightly ajar in case she needs me during the night.