Chapter 17
BELLE
Things felt different in the morning. The house didn’t feel like a place I was temporarily occupying. It felt like somewhere I had slept. Really slept. The kind of sleep where you don’t wake up every hour running numbers in your head.
I still couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep with my head on his shoulder. The growly man I’d met that first day did not seem like a man I would ever feel comfortable enough to accidentally fall asleep around, but things had slowly begun to change. I was something to him I hadn’t seen before.
I was halfway through my coffee when my phone rang.
“El,” I answered.
“Well?” she demanded immediately. “How’s it going? I’ve been worried about you, and your cryptic texts are enough.”
I smiled into the mug. “I’m alive.”
“Details.”
“My knee still hurts. Physical therapy is a pain in the ass. And Raphael—” I paused, trying to choose a word that wouldn’t betray too much.
“Yes?” she pressed.
“He’s been . . . amazing.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end.
“Define amazing.”
“He color-coded my therapy exercises.”
“What?”
The disbelief filled her voice. If I hadn’t witnessed it myself, I’m not sure I would have believed it either.
“He read my discharge papers twice.”
“Wow. Raphael Renault. Who knew?”
“And last night I fell asleep on his shoulder.”
The silence this time was longer.
“You what?”
“We were on the couch,” I rushed. “Talking. About nothing and everything. And I just—” I shrugged even though she couldn’t see me. “I guess I was tired. I woke up, and he hadn’t moved.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh.”
I stared out the kitchen window toward the river bluff.
It had felt so natural. Warm. Safe. His arm, solid around me, like he’d been built to anchor things.
“And this is still crazy. “ I said, shaking off that warm feeling taking hold inside of me. “I married him for insurance. It’s not real.”
There was a pause.
“But it's starting to feel real,” she said gently.
I swallowed.
“No,” I whispered. “Maybe . . . a little.”
I wasn’t ready to say it louder than that. Not yet.
El let that sit for a moment before her voice brightened again.
“Okay. Enough of that. Are you by chance working in your second office today?”
“At the coffee shop?”
“Yeah. James texted. Apparently, someone called out. He asked if I was up to cover a short shift until someone else could come in.”
There was immediate concern in her voice. “Belle, are you up for that?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s only a few hours.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I straightened instinctively, even though she couldn’t see that either. “I can sit behind a counter.”
“And the crutches?”
“I’ll lean them against the counter and look intimidating.”
She laughed. “Do you need a ride?”
“I do,” I admitted. “I don’t think Raphael is going to love the idea of me working either.”
“Ah. There it is.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling.
“Can you pick me up?”
“Of course I can. I’ll swing by in half an hour.”
I had just ended the call when I felt it. That shift in the air. The awareness of being overheard.
I turned slightly in my chair.
Raphael stood in the doorway to the kitchen, already in dress pants and a crisp button-down, expression carefully neutral in the way that meant it absolutely was not.
“You were called in,” he said.
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“At the coffee shop.”
“Yes.”
“You are on crutches.”
“Also, yes.”
He stepped fully into the room. “You’re not going.”
I snorted softly. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Belle,” he warned.
“It’s a short shift.”
“You are injured.” His arms crossed over his broad chest in a way that absolutely did not excite me.
“I can sit.”
“You said you would be behind the register.”
“Yeah, sitting behind the register.”
“That involves standing intermittently.”
“I’ll be fine.” I tried to reassure him.
His jaw flexed. “You require rest.”
“I require income.”
That landed. He didn’t like that answer.
“I can—”
“Don’t you dare offer to give me money,” I shot back.
His gaze sharpened.
“You will not jeopardize recovery for pride.”
“It’s not pride.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s normalcy.” The word surprised even me. “I can’t just sit here and heal like that’s my full-time job,” I continued. “I need to feel like me.”
He studied me for a long moment, weighing something.
“You will push,” he said quietly.
“I won’t.”
“You will ignore discomfort.”
“ . . . . I might.”
He exhaled slowly, even if the corner of his mouth hinted at the tiniest smile.
“I don’t approve.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Silence stretched between us.
“I am taking you,” he said.
“Eleanor can pick me up.”
“I am taking you.” The furrow in his eyebrows meant business.
I crossed my arms. “You’re being dramatic.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. “You will sit,” he said. “You will not lift. You will not close. You will leave when I tell you to.”
What is wrong with me? Why did that just make me so turned on that I might have to change my panties before I go anywhere?
I arched an eyebrow. “Are you my husband or my parole officer?”
“Yes.”
That did it. A laugh escaped before I could stop it. He didn’t smile fully, but something in his expression softened.
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. You’re bossy, you know that.”
“I am aware.” Of course, he was.
He offered his arm. I took it. I could walk in on crutches, but I didn’t mind that he was walking beside me. And I definitely didn’t mind that he was going to glare at anyone who looked at my knee the wrong way.
I pretended to sigh. Inside, though? I kind of loved it.
He drove. Of course, he did. I sat in the passenger seat pretending to be annoyed while he adjusted the air so it wasn’t blowing directly on my knee and reminded me twice not to rush when we arrived.
I kept telling him I had done this job for years without executive supervision, but that didn’t seem to deter him.
When we pulled into the coffee shop parking lot, he was out of the car before I had even gathered my crutches.
“I can do it,” I muttered.
“I am aware,” he replied, already at my door.
That was becoming his refrain. I can. He knows. He helps anyway.
He offered his arm, not insistently, just there.
I hesitated a fraction of a second before taking it.
I tried not to get too excited at the feel of his arm as he helped me out of the car.
I could have managed, but my knee was still stiff from the car ride, and I hated the small wobble that sometimes followed the first few steps.
So I let him help. And that was the problem. I was irritated with him for hovering, for inserting himself into my routine, for making me feel fragile in places I had worked very hard not to feel fragile.
And at the exact same time, I was falling for him.
The contradiction sat heavily in my chest as we made our way toward the door. I liked that he cared. I liked that he paid attention. I liked that he didn’t pretend my injury was minor just because I did.
But I also liked being capable. I liked being the one who handled things.
Trying to reconcile those two truths was like trying to balance on crutches on uneven ground. Sure, it was possible, even if it was awkward and slightly terrifying.
Inside, the familiar smell of espresso wrapped around me. It felt good to be here. I’d missed working the coffee counter and pursuing the used books on my break.
James waved from behind the counter. “Hey, superstar. You sure you’re up for this?”
“I’m sitting,” I said. “And bossing people around.”
“Thanks for coming in.”
Raphael lingered a few feet back, taking everything in with quiet assessment. He didn’t interfere. He didn’t introduce himself as my husband or start issuing instructions. He just watched while I settled onto the stool behind the register and propped my crutches nearby.
“I will be in the corner,” he said quietly to me. “If you require assistance.”
“I will not.”
“I will be in the corner regardless.”
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me.
The shift was manageable. Orders, small talk, and ringing up regulars. I could sit for most of it, pivoting carefully when I needed to reach for cups or napkins. My knee protested occasionally, but not enough to undo me.
About an hour in, the bell above the door chimed, and Robin walked in. Robin was one of my teammates. She was also one of the most observant and opinionated women I knew. Her green eyes could see right into your soul.
She spotted me immediately. Her gaze dropped to the brace, then flicked to Raphael, who was standing near the window pretending not to look like a bodyguard. Her eyebrows lifted.
“Okay,” she said slowly, stepping up to the counter. “What is happening here?”
“Coffee shop,” I replied lightly. “You’ve been to one before, yes?”
She didn’t smile. “I mean with him.”
I busied myself wiping down the counter, though it didn’t need wiping. “He’s making sure I don’t overdo it.”
“And you’re letting him,” she said, clearly taken aback.
“That is a temporary arrangement.”
Robin leaned in slightly. “Are you safe?”
The question landed softly but firmly.
I met her eyes. “Yes.”
She held my gaze a second longer, searching for cracks.
“Babe, 100 percent I feel safe,” I said, reaching over to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. There was more honesty in that statement than I cared to admit. I hadn’t felt as safe as I feel now in a long time.
“He’s intense,” she said, scanning him up and down.
“He is.”
“And you don’t do well with intensity if it tips into control.”
“I know.”
“And?”
“And it hasn’t.”
That seemed to matter to her. Her posture eased just a bit.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I trust you.”
She glanced over at Raphael again. He inclined his head politely, as if aware he was being evaluated and choosing not to bristle at it.
Robin turned back to me. “You look . . . different,” she said.
“Different how?”
“Softer.”
I snorted. “It’s the brace.”
“It’s not the brace.”
Heat crept up my neck. She smiled, but didn’t push further.