13. Bridget
CHAPTER 13
Bridget
The sound of metal clanking rouses me. I didn’t even realize that I’d dozed off. It’s been two days since my surgery, and he’s still here. Sleep has been difficult with the amount of pain I’ve been in, so naps have become the norm, but I hadn’t intended to take one, and there’s a pillow under my head propping me up while the blanket that Ethan’s been using is strewn across me. Did he do this? Looking over to the kitchen, I see Ethan, and holy fuck .
His shirt is off, and sweat trickles down the defined muscles of his back while his head is hidden in the freezer. Wait, why is he shirtless?
I notice that most of my freezer’s contents are spread out on the island, and the fridge has been pulled away from the wall.
“Are you fixing my ice maker?” I croak, my throat froggy with sleep.
“I was attempting to, but it looks like this could be caused by a bigger issue with your water line. Your ice maker isn’t making ice because the water line isn’t getting enough water to the unit. I’m pretty handy, but you might need a plumber to check this out.” He turns toward me and leans over the island, wiping his brow with his forearm.
Fuck me. What is it about a shirtless man in a backwards ball cap? And why does it make me feral? The way the veins of his forearm pop along the corded muscles is sexy as fuck.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re all sweaty and shirtless when half of your body is in my freezer.”
“I run hot?” he suggests with a crooked smile, the hint of his dimple appearing. “You need a plumber. Want me to call one for you? I know a pretty good one.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, my dad. I wouldn’t let him charge you, though.”
“That’s okay. I’ll call someone to deal with it eventually,” I say as he puts everything back in the freezer and moves the fridge back to its place.
The last thing I need is his father or any of his family in my apartment. What would they even think about me dating their son? Would they think I’m too old for him? That I’m his sugar mama or a cougar?
“I need to hit the shower, you mind?” Ethan asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Help yourself,” I say, making a sweeping motion with my arm in the direction of my bedroom.
“Thanks. Let me know if you want that sponge bath after.” He winks at me as he passes.
____________
After a ten-minute standoff, I reluctantly agree to go for a walk around the block with Ethan. I was hoping to get a little time on my own. He’s incredibly sweet and respectful of my space, but I’m an introvert of the worst kind sometimes. My social battery is drained, and I need time to recharge.
It’s not that I was looking forward to this surgery, but the prospect of working remotely was appealing to me. Not having to go into the office and make small talk as I get my morning coffee in the break room? Sign me up.
But it was clear my pup had a bone he wouldn’t let go of, hence our circling the block, headed toward Mangia Bene. I usually frequent this restaurant once a week, yet going there with Ethan today feels different.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Several minutes pass as I ignore his question, thoughts swirling in my head like a snow globe that’s been given a good shake by a rowdy child.
“Why are you so curious what I’m thinking? Can’t I enjoy a walk in silence?” I finally snap. I catch myself. “Shit, that was mean. What I meant was, you’re really nice…” I trail off, hoping he’ll take the hint.
“But? It sounds like there’s a but.”
“But I don’t think this is going to work out. I appreciate your help the past two days.”
“It’s about that time, isn’t it?” He grabs my hand, threading his fingers through mine and anchoring me so I can’t let go despite my attempts to tug free.
“What are you talking about?”
“For you to run or push me away. At least a couple times a day you attempt some variation of this speech. While I understand that you’re a fiercely independent introvert, you just had a pretty significant operation and need someone to help you while you recover.”
“Becka gets back soon. I can call her to help.”
“What I can’t figure out is what set you off this time. I’m not pushing you for more. I didn’t ask about your bowel movements?—”
“Jesus.”
“You don’t seem particularly vulnerable right now, and it’s not the first time we’ve been out in public together.”
“Remember what happened last time we were around people? Nurse Maggie thought you were my son.”
Ethan stops on the sidewalk and tugs on our linked hands, pulling me back to him. For a fleeting moment, I hope that he’ll touch me, lean into me. Then I realize how close we are to the restaurant, and anxiety creeps in, making me worry that someone will see us. I’m too exposed right now, too raw. I don’t think I could hear one piece of negativity or criticism without feeling like I’ll collapse like a house of cards. So I opt for honesty.
“I feel like shit right now. It feels like someone has punched my insides out. Walking hurts. I still can’t get out of bed without your help or going extremely slow because of the pain. I can’t do any of my normal routines, and now I’m out in public in little makeup with someone who’s been mistaken for my child.”
He lets go of my hand and slides his hand up my arm, grabbing my shoulder to get my full attention. This feels less intimate than the hand-holding, and I’m grateful for the reprieve.
“I think you’re fucking beautiful, Bridget. Just like this. But more importantly, you have a beautiful soul. You don’t take shit from people. You know what you want and who you are, and you don’t apologize for going after what you want. I want to be around that kind of energy. I’m proud to be seen with you. If people don’t understand our friendship, fuck ’em.”
“Fuck ’em,” I repeat with a hollow laugh. “I wish I had your ability to not care about what others think.”
“I’ll get it out of you,” he promises. “But if you’re worried, you can wait out here, and I’ll grab what we need from the restaurant.”
I let out a deep breath. What will it hurt? This is the lowest-risk scenario, right? Anyone in there already knows me as a customer and thinks of him as part of the family. If anyone would accept this friendship, it’d be the people in that restaurant. “It’s fine, I’ll go. Maybe don’t hold my hand. I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.”
“Friends can hold hands.”
“Do you and Alyx?”
He rolls his eyes. “I suppose you have a point there.”
He opens the door for me as we approach the entrance. The aroma of garlic and cheese hits me as we cross the threshold and Mina greets us at the hostess stand.
“Pickle! We weren’t expecting you today,” Mina exclaims.
“I just need to grab a few things from the kitchen if you don’t mind.”
“Help yourself!” Dre calls out from near the bar as she joins us, planting a kiss on Mina’s cheek. “The prodigal son has returned. How’s the patient?” she asks, turning her attention on me. Seeing the embarrassment on my cheeks, she continues, “Ethan never asks for time off. He said he was helping a friend recover from surgery.” Relief washes over me as I realize that he hasn’t told them everything.
“I’m good, thanks. Just wiped out,” I say through a tight smile, forcing my face to look polite. I’m too tired to fake pleasantries with people right now, despite how kind Mina and Dre are.
“If you need anything, let us know. Or Ethan. He’s always a huge help to us here. He’s a good person to have in your corner.” Dre winks at me before kissing Mina’s cheek again and loudly whispering “Behave” in her ear.
“Uh, we’re standing right here, can you not?” Ethan says to Mina as Dre retreats to the kitchen.
“Oh, that wasn’t flirting. It was a warning for her,” Dre explains, pointing at Mina as she walks backward toward the kitchen.
Mina crosses her arms over her chest and raises her chin to Ethan. “I warned you what would happen if you didn’t...” Her eyes cut to me and then back to Ethan. A silent conversation passing between them before Ethan pulls my body flush into his side, dropping a kiss on my head.
“Satisfied?” he says through gritted teeth. A hint of a smile and desperation in his eyes. I wonder what that’s about.
“That’ll do for now, Pickle.” She smiles before grabbing a rag from under the hostess stand and stalking to the bar to wipe it down.
“What was that about, Pickle ?” I ask as I look up at Ethan still plastered against my side.
“Later,” he promises as his hand tips my chin up.
____________
Once we get back to the apartment, my cell vibrates in my pocket. “It’s Dr. Francis’s office,” I explain as I excuse myself, walking toward my room.
“Hi, Bridget. This is Dr. Francis’s nurse calling to check in on you and see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” I grumble.
“That’s good to hear. We got a call at the office yesterday morning. Your boyfriend was concerned. He said you experienced some vomiting the night you came home.”
“That’s correct. That I vomited, not the other part. He’s not my boyfriend.” I continue down the hall, walking into my room and pulling the door closed behind me, not wanting Ethan to hear my conversation.
Choosing to ignore my awkwardness, the nurse continues, “How are your incision sites healing? Any redness or swelling?”
“Nope, they look good. Will I be able to shower soon?”
“You should wait at least seventy-two hours, so maybe tomorrow evening. Have you been able to pass gas and have a bowel movement?”
“Um, yeah, I’ve been able to pass gas,” I start, thinking about the handful of times I left Ethan alone in a room to sneak off to my bathroom. “But I haven’t had the urge to do more than that.”
“That’s okay, honey. Your body’s still adjusting. But if you don’t have a bowel movement in the next three days, give us a call. In the meantime, I can call in a stool softener and laxative for you.”
“No, that’s okay. I have some over-the-counter stuff I can try if I need to,” I reply, glancing toward my bathroom, where I keep most of my medications.
“Perfect. How’s your pain been on a scale from one to ten?”
“Without medication, it’s been a five or six. But it’s not constant. The Percocet obviously helps, but I’ve been swapping it for ibuprofen. So maybe a two or three once it kicks in? My shoulder’s been sore too.”
“That’ll happen. You could continue with the Percocet and add the ibuprofen in instead of swapping it out.”
“I’ll think about it. I’m not sure that I want to continue with the harder stuff. I don’t want to grow dependent on it, but it mainly knocks me out, leaving me feeling vulnerable and sleepy. Plus, I think it’s messing with my sleep cycle.” I know Ethan would never take advantage of me in that state, but the thought of being vulnerable like that around anyone makes me uncomfortable.
“Fair enough. Do you have someone you can count on as a caretaker? You’ll need someone to get groceries for you. You shouldn’t be lifting heavy bags.”
“It’s fine. I use an app for grocery deliveries.”
“Do they bring it in and put it away for you? Because the last thing you want is to hurt yourself lifting a gallon of milk.”
“Not typically, but it’ll be fine. I don’t drink much milk anyway, so I don’t buy it by the gallon.”
“It’s not just milk. Anything heavy like that can do damage right now, even carrying a laundry basket. You should avoid any moderate or heavy lifting for the next six weeks. It can be hard for a lot of women, especially those with kids or pets?—”
“Then it’s a good thing I have neither,” I retort with a bit of bite in my tone.
“Well, okay,” she stutters. “Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions or need anything.”
Ending the call, I toss my phone down on the bed. I think about Becka. She and Robert will get back in a few days, and I’m going to have to tell her about my surgery, especially if I’m going to enlist her help instead of Ethan’s.
But if Becka comes, she’ll probably need to bring her daughter Hallie with her, and while she’s adorable, the thought of a four-year-old running through my apartment and getting things sticky when I should be resting—well, it doesn’t sound relaxing.
____________
It’s much later in the day as Ethan begins prepping dinner in the kitchen, while I sit on the loveseat in the living room watching him, my show forgotten in the background. He’s oblivious to my blatant staring as he opens drawers and cabinets to pull out various items he needs: a cutting board, a few different knives I own but clearly don’t know all the different uses for, and several pots and pans with matching lids. I track his body as he dances around, organizing his workspace. Oh, to be in my early twenties again and have that kind of energy—though Ethan has far less worries and a hell of a lot more optimism than I ever had at that age.
His forearms flex and pop as he skillfully angles the knife up and down, chopping carrots and celery. After several minutes of chopping, he stills, wiping the blade on the edge of his apron.
“Where did you get an apron?” I ask with confusion. I don’t own any, and I don’t remember him putting one on. Maybe he did it while I was watching TV. I mean, I haven’t been staring at him this whole time. Have I?
“From my bag.”
“You bring aprons with you when you pack an overnight bag?”
He chuckles as he sets the now-clean knife down. “I knew I’d be doing a good bit of cooking for you, and I like wearing one when I cook.”
“That tracks, I guess.”
“You always gonna bust my balls this hard?”
“Maybe,” I shoot back.
“Good, I like it. Keeps me on my toes.” He smiles, showing off his perfectly straight teeth and adjacent dimple.
He turns his back to me and opens the fridge, gathering various items in his arms. I’m grateful for the break in his attention as my cheeks flush. I might be starting to like our back and forth.
“I’ll get you in here with me one day,” he promises as he lines up items on the counter and begins filling a pot with water. “Once you’re healed, I’ll teach you some things. But for now, just enjoy the show, beautiful.”
“You sound pretty sure about that. Didn’t realize you were so cocky.”
“Only when it comes to you, sweetheart.” He turns to put the pot on the stove. “I make your favorite meal, after all.”
“You could teach me how to make it.”
“And have you stop coming into the restaurant? Then what would you need me for? I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“It may not have been yesterday, but it wasn’t that long ago.”
His brows furrow, and a line appears between them. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Make jokes about my age. You keep using it as an excuse to push me away. I’ve already told you, it’s not going to scare me off.” His eyes darken and roam up and down my body.
I shift awkwardly in my seat, the heat of his gaze lighting up my insides as I taunt, “What are you going to do about it?”
He leans forward, bracing his hands on the island in front of him. The move makes his muscles strain against the fabric of his shirt, stirring something deep in my core. And even though he’s in the kitchen and I’m in the living room, it feels like we are inches apart. “Once you get the green light, I’m going to punish that perfect little ass of yours. Either with my hand, my tongue, or my cock. So I suggest you stop mentioning our ages, or you pick a safe word. It’s your choice.”
I can feel my arousal soaking my panties. The goddamn mouth on this man. It’s not often I’m rendered speechless. Witty comebacks are my thing. Part of my armor. Equally part of my charm and downfall. I’ve picked up a lot of things working in the corporate world, and being able to give it back to men verbally is a skill I’ve honed. It’s surprising how easily men trust you when you can take a joke and snap one back. It’s part of what helped me move up at my company. Men like working with women who don’t create drama and have a good sense of humor. And I’ve put up with a lot of good ole boys in my career. But no one’s ever spoken to me like Ethan.
However, at this moment, not a single word comes to mind. Not a single thought enters my head other than the thought of Ethan doing all those things to me.
Several tortuous moments pass, and Ethan returns his focus to our meal, but I can’t stop picturing all the ways he’ll punish my body. Careful not to make any sudden movements, I use my arms to push myself off the couch.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announce, not sure why I’m doing so. Maybe because I want him to picture me naked the way I’m picturing him right now. I turn and begin heading down the hall to my bedroom.
“No, you’re not.” His deep voice booms across the apartment. “You have to wait seventy-two hours, remember?”
Even though I haven’t been very active since I came home—aside from our walks—I’m starting to feel like I want to bathe, even if it might hurt to bend and reach all my places.
“That’ll be tomorrow. Close enough,” I call out, keeping my back to him.
Before I have a chance to register what’s happening, his hands are holding my biceps, pulling me back to him. I wince at the pain that lances my shoulder from the movement.
“Shit, sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No, my shoulder’s been hurting since last night.”
“The nurse said that could happen. Need anything for the pain?” he asks, gently turning me to face him.
“I might take something with dinner,” I acquiesce. Suddenly, I’m aware of how close we are standing. His body is mere inches from mine as the energy sparks between us.
“I’ve got soup simmering on the stove, and it should be ready in the next thirty minutes. Then I can help you with a sponge bath, and we can get a heating pad on your shoulder while you relax on the couch. That sound like a plan?”
“Y-yeah,” I breathe as the heat from the closeness of his body sends a shiver through me.
Noticing the tremor, he shoves his hands in his pockets as he leans in close to my ear and asks, “Are you cold?”
“No, I…”
My words trail off as he leans in closer. “I know you feel this, Bridget. If you need to call it a friendship, I’ll play along. For now. But I really fucking like you. Your spark. Your wit. Your bite. Your body. You’re the whole goddamn package, and I’d be a fool to let you push me away. I know you don’t let a lot of people in, but I’ll knock on your door every fucking day for the chance to spend even a minute with you.”
An appliance beeps in the kitchen, causing him to back away slowly, his hands still in his pockets.
____________
We finish dinner, but Ethan’s plea from earlier keeps swirling around in my head. Thoughts of his plan for me after dinner send a thrill of delight through me.
Letting him give me a sponge bath should scare me. It’s an incredibly intimate act. But this man has shown me that he’s not afraid of intimacy even if my hesitancy is obvious. He’s always offered me an out, knowing I need it, but still pushing me for more. We’ve already showered together, and he washed my hair. This is just like that, right?
I couldn’t imagine letting anyone else in my inner circle do this for me. The thought of Ethan doing it excites me, and for once I don’t have an urge to push him away. Huh. When did that happen?
Ethan removes our dishes from the table, loading up the dishwasher and letting the pots and pans he used to prepare our meal soak in the sink. “I can help with that,” I offer.
“Nope. No lifting things, remember?”
“It’s kind of ridiculous to expect me not to carry anything at all for six weeks. When the nurse called earlier, she scolded me not to lift any laundry or groceries. She also said something about not lifting kids or pets. I told her I didn’t have either and that she could fuck off.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Ok, maybe I didn’t actually tell her to fuck off, but it was implied.”
“After I finish cleaning these dishes, I’ll clean you,” he says over his shoulder, winking at me before turning back to the sink.
“You’re ridiculous.”
With his back still to me, he says, “Why is it that I can feel that eye roll without even seeing your face?”
“I’m going to head to the bathroom and wash my face,” I say, slowly rising from my chair.
He drops a dish into the sink, fumbling with his soapy hands before he grabs a towel and starts drying them. “Don’t,” he starts, a look of sincerity crossing his handsome features. “I’d like to help you with that again. I got you something earlier.”
“You did? When? I was with you the whole time.”
Crossing to his overnight bag near the couch, he pulls out a small brown paper bag and hands it to me. “I asked Dre to grab it for me. She handed it to me before we left the restaurant.”
Reaching into the bag, I pull out a vial of vitamin C serum and two collagen face masks.
“I told her about all the videos I was watching and about your routine. She said these were the secret to her youthful look.”
“Thank you, this is so thoughtful of her. I’ll have to thank her the next time I see her.”
“You ready for that sponge bath now?” He waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
“Not if you’re going to act like a teenager who’s just seen his first set of boobs.”
“I was sixteen. A late bloomer.”
“Don’t you have dishes to finish?”
“I’m not letting you push me away again, remember?”
I turn and head toward the bathroom, new skincare products in hand. Ethan helps me with my skincare routine and repeats every step on himself like he did the night before. Standing next to him in my bathroom feels natural, like he’s meant to be here and not an unwelcome visitor.
A pang of nerves hits me at the thought of him bathing me, but I swallow it and slowly start removing my clothes, giving him an awkward silent striptease free of eye contact. I’ve removed my shirt and bra when I notice him staring at me.
“Uh… w-what’re you d-doing?” He stutters out as I watch his reflection in the mirror. His eyes rake over me as he reaches down and adjusts himself in his pants.
“I assume I’m going to need to be naked for this sponge bath?”
“Right, uh, I didn’t think about that part when I offered,” he says as his breathing picks up and a light sheen of sweat breaks out along his hairline.
“Don’t get shy on me now, pup.”
“It’s not that. I just didn’t expect you to actually let me, let alone try to strip all the way down. I’m not sure my dick can take it.”
“If you need to go rub one out, you can use the other bathroom. I’ll wait,” I challenge him with a fire in my eyes.
“Jesus,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “It’s fine. You’re just really fucking gorgeous. This body. These tits.”
“I can see this is going to be”—my eyes move down to his crotch—“hard for you. I can do it if you’re not up for the job, friend .”
“Fuck that,” he says as he crosses to the linen closet and pulls out a washcloth and a towel. After turning on the faucet and adjusting it to the right temperature, he soaks the cloth and rings out the extra moisture as he turns to me, his eyes roaming up and down my body as though he’s a starved man and I’m something he plans to devour.
Feeling a little embarrassed like I’m being examined under a microscope, I slowly turn and offer him my back to start. “I think I’ve earned the pickle story now,” I proclaim, proud of myself for the baby steps I’m taking with this man.
“Okay,” he breathes out. “But it’s really embarrassing. Promise you won’t make fun of me.”
“I make no such promise.”
He carefully cleans my back, lightly scrubbing me with the warm soapy cloth before patting me dry with the towel. He moves on to my arms and shoulders, being careful not to aggravate the pain in my shoulder as he washes.
Just when I think I’ve pushed him too far with the teasing, he turns my body to face his and our eyes connect. Looking down at me, he slowly moves from my shoulders down my chest, and I suck in a deep breath as warmth pools in my core. His deep voice is low when he starts speaking.
“I had to lead service one night, and I hadn’t done laundry in a while and all my chef pants were dirty. Alyx gave me a pair to borrow, but they were a little tighter than I was used to. I wasn’t too worried about it since my apron would cover me.”
“Why is it kind of hot picturing you dressed as a chef?”
“Behave,” he warns as his cloth massages my breasts, cleaning in small circles before he wipes away the moisture with the towel.
“Do you wear the little hat and everything?” I question through shallow breaths trying to focus on his words and not the feelings he’s awakening in my body.
“I have a chef hat that I earned from culinary school in Italy, but I don’t usually wear it. I normally wear a black Aussie chef box hat if I’m leading service. Otherwise, I wear a ball cap.” His hands move beneath my breasts as he cleans the area right above my incisions. “You’re missing the point. The important part of the story is my pants, not my hat.”
“Just painting a mental picture of what you look like in uniform.” I chuckle as he kneels and begins his focus on my feet, moving up my legs as he continues.
“Anyway, I was leading service, and a guest asked to speak with the chef. It’d been a busy night, and I’d forgotten about my pants. I walked over to the table and had lifted my apron to wipe my hands off so I could shake the guest’s hands when a little girl at the table loudly declared, ‘Look at him, mama, he has a pickle in his pants!’ She said it loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear. I was mortified.”
“Wait, I thought you said this was embarrassing? Aren’t most guys proud of having a big dick?” I ask as he finishes the front of my legs and grabs my hips to spin me to face away from him.
“Well, the little girl didn’t mention the size of the pickle, so the kitchen staff got creative. Now, when I run a dinner service, the staff will refer to me as Pickle. Instead of ‘yes, Chef,’ it’s ‘yes, Pickle.’ I can’t tell you how many times they refer to my ‘little gherkin.’ And it’s not like I’m going to whip my dick out and correct them. So now my unofficial nickname is Pickle. Every time we get an order for extra pickles, the wait staff will toss some at me like I’m a stripper. It’s humiliating.”
“I don’t see what the big dill is.”
He groans. “Fuck, not you too. I knew this was a bad idea.”
“Pickle puns must be your bread and butter.”
He playfully smacks my ass before palming it in his hand and squeezing it through the fabric of my shorts. “Jesus Christ, why aren’t you wearing any panties?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
“The extra fabric on my waist kept rubbing on my dressings, so I took them off.”
“If I pull these down?—”
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea to finish that sentence, friend ,” I say, half-warning, half-teasing. We can’t do anything about these feelings right now anyway.
“Got it,” he says, pushing up to stand. He gestures to the towels. “I’m going to go start a load of laundry for these and my apron. Do you have anything else I could throw in for you?”
“Sure, there’s a little bit in the hamper by the door.”
Gripping the edge of the counter for support, I let out a breath. The air in the room feels colder now that he’s gone, and my brain doesn’t know how to process that information. The temperature wouldn’t actually lower enough for my body to notice a difference just because there’s one less body in here. But it’s not my brain that’s registering these changes right now. It’s my heart.
This man. Fuck.