Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Nash
I press my bedroom door closed with the heel of my hand and lean against it like that’ll keep everything on the other side from spilling in here.
What the hell was that?
Lucy’s been in the house for all of five hours and I’ve already crossed the line.
Patient. Roommate. Whatever she is, she’s not mine.
Not to touch, not to want, not to kiss like I’ve been starving for the feel of her.
It’s one thing to like being around her. It’s an entirely asinine thing to let her be anything more than what she is.
My chest is tight, my face hot, and all I can think is how stupid I am. She’ll think I invited her here for this. She’ll think I’m her father all over again—controlling, manipulative, using her circumstances to get what I want.
God, that kiss. I wanted it—more than I’ve wanted anything in years. Her mouth was soft, hesitant, like she didn’t see it coming but maybe part of her had been waiting for it all along. I’ve kissed plenty of women, but this one… this one split something wide open inside me.
Something I’d buried five years ago and swore I’d never let out again.
Because when I fall, I fall hard.
And the way I feel around Lucy—hell, it’s not a fall at all. It’s a free-fall.
And I promised myself I’d never feel that way about someone again.
I rub both hands down my face, shove off the door, and promise myself I’ll be a better man tomorrow.
Warm vanilla, golden and soft. Butter browning in a pan.
There’s music, too—Sandro René, of course—bright, poppy, electric, crooning about bright lights and summer nights, the plastic gods of the modern age.
I follow both, half-asleep and barefoot, into a house that suddenly feels like it’s been lived in.
And then I see her.
Lucy, at the stove, dancing—or something close to it.
One foot planted, the other in a boot, her crutch tucked loosely under her arm.
She sways with the rhythm, hips tilting in a pair of pajama shorts that show a whole lotta leg, tank top slipping off one shoulder, hair piled on top of her head like a storm held back by pins and hope.
She is light and movement and pancakes in the morning.
She’s also not. mine.
Still, I pause in the doorway, every cell in my body suddenly aware. The way the early sun kisses her skin. The curve of her spine as she leans to flip something in the pan.
She doesn’t notice me until I clear my throat.
She jumps a little, then grins. “Morning, Doc.”
She’s trying to be breezy. But there’s a flicker behind her eyes—awareness, hesitation—that makes my gut clench. I kissed her last night—and she kissed me back—and now she’s here, barefoot in my kitchen and I have to go back to being Dr. Kincaid. Cool. Calm. Detached.
“Morning,” I manage, voice still rough from sleep and memory. I go for coffee. Strong. Scalding. Something to burn away the memory of her lips on mine.
“I made breakfast,” Lucy says. “Kind of a thank-you-slash-peace-offering.”
“Thank you?” I lift a brow. “For what?”
“For giving me an actual bed in an actual room with an actual door.” She smiles, flipping another pancake.
“I forgot what it felt like to sleep well. God bless Stella for letting me stay for as long as she did, but if I never have to see that couch again it will be too soon. And, just for the record, this is kind of a big deal. I rarely make it out of bed before ten. So this?” She waves her spatula. “Special.”
I almost laugh, but something in my chest is twisted too tight.
The silence around the kiss is louder than her chatter. I set the coffee down harder than I mean to.
Lucy glances at me, startled.
“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, leaning against the counter. “Nothing.”
“Nash.”
Her voice is soft but firm. The kind of voice that expects the truth.
I sigh. “Look, we need to talk about last night. That shouldn’t have happened.”
She blinks. “That’s part of the reason I wanted to be up before you left. To apologize.”
“You aren’t the one who needs to apologize. That was on me.” I cross my arms and wish I’d had more time to caffeinate. I’m barely functional in the mornings and this is a lot. “You’re living in my house.”
“And?”
“I’m significantly older than you.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re not that old.”
“I’m thirty-six, Lucy.”
“And I’m twenty-six. We’re not talking about a high school sophomore and her gym teacher.”
I groan, running a hand down my face. “But we are talking about a doctor and his patient. It complicates things.”
Lucy drops the spatula onto the counter with a clatter and turns fully to face me, arms folded across her chest. “You’re saying all this like I didn’t kiss you back.”
“You did,” I say softly. “And that’s the problem.”
“Is it?” Her chin lifts. Defiant. Stubborn. Unable to see the magnitude of the obstacles between us.
I straighten from the counter, meeting her gaze. “Lucy, you’re in a vulnerable place right now. No job, no car, no place to go. You’re relying on me more than you’re comfortable with, and I don’t want that dependency to blur the lines.”
Her expression softens slightly, but her stance doesn’t. “So, what? You think I don’t know my own mind?”
“I’m old enough to know the beginnings of a problem when I see one. And I don’t want to take advantage.” I step closer. Not by choice. More like my body makes the decision for me.
Her mouth twists. “You’re not.”
“You say that now.”
Another step. The sweet scent of coconut wraps around me.
Lucy’s jaw ticks, clear blue eyes blazing into mine. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide what I should feel. Or how I’ll feel tomorrow. Or what I should think or do. My dad does that.” She crosses the space between us with slow, deliberate steps—crutch and all—until she’s just a few feet away. Her eyes search mine.
“I’m not trying to dictate, Lucy. I’m trying to protect you.”
“From what? You?”
I look down. She’s close enough that I can see the pale line of freckles on her shoulder. The curve of her collarbone. Close enough that if I so much as breathed too deeply, I might brush her with my chest.
Close enough to remember the way she tasted.
“I don’t do casual,” I admit. “I’m not built for it. And right now, I can’t separate the part of me that wants to help you heal from the part that just wants you.”
She’s watching me like she can see everything.
And God help me, that undoes me.
But I take a half step back, forcing distance.
“Maybe we call it a pause,” I say, throat dry. “Not denial. Not regret. Just... space.”
She studies me for a beat, then nods once. Not out of agreement, just understanding.
“Space it is,” she says, and turns back to the stove. She flips another pancake with more force than necessary. “We’ll pretend last night didn’t happen.”
Her voice is light, almost flippant. But I hear the edge in it.
She’s angry. Damn it. This is why I can’t get involved.
The hurt silence. The quiet conflict. The gut punch of doing everything I know to be right and still being misunderstood.
I lived it for years with Jadelyn and I never want to feel that way again.
“You burn those,” I say after a minute, trying to inject some levity, “and I’m revoking your kitchen privileges.”
Lucy shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Don’t push me, Doc. I’ve got a hot pan and limited impulse control.”
I chuckle despite myself, grateful for the tension break. For the flicker of her smile.
We eat the pancakes in silence, seated at opposite ends of the island. She adds too much syrup. I drink more coffee than any sane person should.
But for as awkward as this feels, it’s better. Safer. Lucy isn’t mine to keep. She’s here until she heals and then she’s gone. This distance between us? It’s better.
“The next couple days are going to be long shifts for me. You feel okay running your exercises by yourself?”
Lucy nods. “I think I can manage.”
“Nothing new. Nothing we haven’t already done together. Stop the moment something feels wrong.”
With a quiet laugh, she gives me a sassy little salute. “Aye Cap’n.”