Chapter 19 Lucy #2
Harris is mid-climb, scaling my window like some kind of deranged burglar. His hands are gripping the window ledge, one boot most likely planted in the vine trellis, muscles straining as he tries to—what? Break in?
The second I shout his name, he startles.
And then?
He falls.
“Oh Sh—”
Thud.
I wince as he lands hard in the bushes below with a loud groan.
“Holy shit!” I scream. “Oh my God!”
Annabelle is shrieking at full volume in my ear. “What? What Happened? Are you Murdered?”
I don’t think. I move.
Barefoot, heart pounding, I dash down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet in my rush to get to the front door. The second I fling it open, I sprint toward the driveway, phone still clutched in one hand as Annabelle shouts in my ear.
“Lucy?! Are you dead? Blink Twice if you’re dead.”
“I Can’t Blink if i’m Dead, Annabelle!” I screech back, my brain operating at peak useless-panic mode. “For the Love of God!”
The garbage cans are toppled over, their contents spilling onto the pavement as if ransacked by a gang of raccoons. And right in the middle of the mess?
Harris.
Sprawled out. On his back. Arms spread. A butter wrapper stuck to his shirt.
I skid to a stop, hands on my knees, breathing hard. “Harris, are you—”
“I’m fine,” he groans loudly. He sounds pained. He shifts, trying to sit up, and an empty soup can rolls off his stomach. “Okay, maybe not fine.”
Annabelle is still screaming in my ear. “Is it a Burglar? Did he kill harris? Is There Blood?”
I press a hand to my forehead. “It’s Harris.”
Silence.
Then:
“You mean to tell me this entire moment was caused by Harris being a moron?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll call you back. My boyfriend needs me.”
“No! Don’t hang up!” she begs. “Put me on FaceTime!”
“Bye Annabelle,” I singsong, turning my attention back to Harris, who lets out a strained laugh, still lying in the trash pile.
“Boyfriend, huh?” he has the energy to ask. “I like the sound of that.”
I gape at him. “You almost died, and that’s what you’re focusing on?”
He blinks up at me, head half buried in a pile of my recycling. It’s strewn all over, bottles and cans rolling across the pavement.
Harris closes his eyes, smiling as if he has stars behind his eyelids. “If I go out, I wanna go out hearing you call me your boyfriend.”
I make a strangled noise, trying not to giggle. “You are not my boyfriend.”
“Not with that attitude.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Harris, why were you climbing up the side of my house?”
He winces as he shifts, dislodging a crumpled box from beneath his back. “I thought through the part where I’d surprise you. I miscalculated the execution and the amount of weight that trellis can hold. In theory, I was being romantic.”
I blink. “In theory?”
“Yes.” He begins pushing himself up by the elbows. “In execution? Less romantic. More . . . mildly concussed.”
I stare at him.
Harris stumbles to his feet, brushing debris off his jeans before straightening to his full height. Too close. The smell of his cologne, mixed with a hint of cedar and—yesterday’s leftover pizza and expired condiments—wraps around me.
Holy crap does he stink.
“For the record, I knocked first.”
I raise a brow. “And when I didn’t answer, you thought, ‘better climb the house’?”
He flashes me that easy, infuriating grin. “What can I say? I’m committed.”
I gawp up at him. “Committed to making me lose my mind?”
“Committed to seeing you,” he corrects smoothly.
My stomach flips as I step back. “You scared the crap out of me.”
His expression shifts, something softer edging into his amusement. “Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Harris exhales and takes a tentative step toward my porch. That’s when I notice the slight hitch in his stride.
I frown. “Are you limping?”
He scoffs. “Me? Pfft, no.”
A second later, he stumbles.
I arch a brow.
“Fine. Perhaps I’m limping a little.”
I sigh, stepping forward. “Come on, garbage boy. Let’s get you inside before you actually break something.”
He grins, and I don’t miss the way he leans on me for support as I hook an arm around his waist. He’s solid, his body radiating warmth and a strong smell of—I gulp—trash.
Harris glances down at me. “You’re strong for someone your size.”
The moment we’re inside, I shut the door behind us and drop my keys on the counter.
“Bathroom,” I announce, already steering him in that direction.
He gives me a lazy grin. “Trying to get me naked already?”
“Trying to get you clean.”
I guide him down the hallway, push open my small bathroom door, flip on the light. Harris steps inside, glancing around as I cross my arms.
“Clothes off,” I order.
“Oooh.” His brows lift. “Daddy like.”
My eyes roll. “You reek to high heaven.”
Harris grins, pleased with himself. “Aw, come on, babe. You don’t find my Eau de Garbage rugged? Manly?”
I make a face. “If you don’t get in that shower right now, I will drag your ass outside and hose you down for all the neighbors to see.” And by neighbors, I mean my parents, who—thank God—are not home at the moment.
He chuckles, reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Kinky.”
His grin is wobbly as he lifts his shirt, peeling it off in one slow motion. The fabric clings, damp and dirty, before he finally drops it onto the tiled floor.
I inhale through my nose, regret settling deep in my chest as I get a proper look at him.
His ribs are faintly bruised from the fall, a smudge of dirt streaking along his side. He’s favoring one leg slightly, and now that his adrenaline is fading, I can see the stiffness in his movements. The way he exhales a little too hard, like breathing itself is painful.
I press my lips together.
“You’re hurt,” I murmur, stepping closer. I place a hand on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. Playing doctor.
He stills instantly. I don’t know if it’s because of the touch or because he knows I won’t buy whatever tough-guy nonsense he’s about to sell me. Either way, his smirk falters.
I exhale softly, smoothing my hand over his ribs, careful but searching. He tenses slightly under my touch.
“Does this hurt?” I ask quietly, pressing lightly over the faint bruising.
His jaw tics. “Not really.”
I look at him.
He sighs. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I shake my head, guilt curling in my stomach. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
His brow furrows. “Sure you should have. I scared the shit out of you.”
I frown, fingers still absently tracing his side. “Yeah, but now you’re hurt, and I feel like an ass.”
Harris chuckles, but it’s softer this time. “Sweetheart, you’re the opposite of an ass.”
I flush at his easy use of the endearment, then clear my throat, nudging him toward the shower. “Come on, big guy,” I say gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He doesn’t argue, lets me guide him a step closer to the shower stall, body moving slow and careful. He reaches for his zipper, fumbling slightly, and I realize his hands are shaking.
I step forward to help. I undo the buckle carefully, then slide the button through the loop, my fingers brushing against his waist. Harris stays perfectly still, watching me, something unreadable in his gaze.
When I finally tug the zipper down, I murmur, “Can you handle the rest?”
His throat bobs. “Sure.”
I nod, stepping back and grabbing a towel. “Take it slow, okay? If anything hurts too much, I have ice packs.”
Harris tilts his head, smiling slightly. “Nurse Lucy. I like it.”
I turn to leave so he can have privacy, but before I can step out, a whimpering little murmur reaches my ears. “Wait.”
I pause, hand on the doorknob, bracing myself. Here we go.
“What if I fall?”
I stare at his bare chest. “Hmm?”
He gestures toward the shower, expression that screams earnest—and I am full of shit. “I’m injured, Lucy. What if I lose my balance? Slip? Hit my head?” He lets out a pitiful sigh. “You’d never forgive yourself.”
I gape at him. “You expect me to believe you suddenly lost your ability to stand upright?”
He is somber when he says “Tragic, I know.”
I watch as he presses a hand to his ribs, wincing—not enough to be concerning, but enough to guilt-trip me into oblivion.
“Nurse Lucy,” he whimpers. “Are you really going to make me suffer alone?”
Yes, I was planning on having him shower alone. I press my lips together, determined not to fall for his act. “You made it up my stairs fine. You’ll survive a five-minute rinse off.”
“Seriously? You would abandon me in my time of need?”
I glare. “Your time of need?”
He nods solemnly. “Vulnerable. Helpless. Soapy.”
I hate that a tiny, traitorous part of me is picturing it—me stepping into the shower, warm steam curling around us, his body pressed close, soap-slicked skin under my hands—
But then he shifts, his ribs clearly bothering him more than he wants to admit.
I exhale slowly. “Fine.”
His brows lift, clearly surprised. “Fine?”
I cross my arms tighter, forcing myself to remain calm—like this is a logical choice and not an emotionally reckless one. “I’ll help.”
Harris grins like he won the damn lottery. “Well, well, well. Looks like I am the favorite patient after all.”
“No screwing around. If you fall because you’re trying to get handsy, I won’t be able to lift you.”
“Oh, I’m definitely getting handsy,” he promises, stepping into the shower first, groaning as the hot water hits his skin. He braces a hand against the tile, rolling his shoulders under the spray, letting it soak into his muscles.
I should give him a moment of privacy—should not stare, should definitely not notice the way steam clings to the glass, blurring but not entirely concealing the way his silhouette moves.
But when I shift my eyes to his face, his gaze is on me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Through the fogged-up glass, Harris tilts his head, eyes dragging lazily over me like he has all the time in the world. He doesn’t speak—leans into the water, expression unreadable but unmistakably aware of my impending nakedness.
A slow prickle of heat creeps up my neck.
Tentatively, I reach for the hem of my shirt and tug it over my head in one smooth motion. His eyes track the movement, following the drop of fabric to the floor.
I try not to let this striptease affect me.
I try not to feel the weight of his attention, lingering, waiting as I unbutton my shorts and slide them down my legs.
But I do.