Chapter Thirty-Three
Parker
“Shit!”
The tongs slip from my fingers and land on the counter, splattering my shirt with steaming red chile and tomato gravy.
My hands are done. The dull, throbbing ache runs from my knuckles all the way to my wrists.
I have enough left in me to add the last few pieces of beef to the pot, cover it, and set it to simmer.
Once I’m sure it’s not going to cook too quickly, I pull a bag of peas from the freezer and sink down onto the couch.
I alternate hands, the makeshift ice pack in one and a pencil in the other, trying to fill out a crossword puzzle.
It doesn’t go well when I try to write with my left.
My q looks more like a c, and my b doesn’t look like anything at all.
After twenty minutes, the ache has faded to something manageable. Cubing and browning two pounds of chuck roast? Plus chopping chiles, tomatoes, and herbs? Not smart. But the way Eliot talked about my mom’s cooking…I had to use her recipes.
The pecan pie is cooling on the rack. Fresh bread—started before dawn when I couldn’t get back to sleep—calls my name, but I resist the urge to cut off the heel and shove it into my mouth. Barely.
By five, I’ve showered, plucked, fixed my hair, and changed outfits twice. The sundress leaves my arms bare, ends just above my knees, and clings to my ass in a way I’ve never been totally comfortable with. But when I texted Grace a photo, she told me I’d be a damn fool not to wear it.
I’m giving my hands another ice treatment when my phone vibrates on the counter.
Red or white wine?
Red. I made carne guisada. I hope you like spicy.
You didn’t have to go to that much trouble.
If you say “it’s just dinner,” I’m changing my address.
It’s not “just dinner.” Don’t disappear before we see where this goes.
Okay. But I’m keeping that as my backup plan.
That earns me a rolling-on-the-floor-laughing emoji. Shifting the peas between one hand and the other, I spend ten minutes trying to figure out if there’s a hidden meaning behind that specific graphic. And another five wishing there was. But in the end, I find nothing.
He’s prompt—two quick knocks right at six.
I open the door, and Eliot stands in the heat of the evening sun, wearing a pair of dark Wranglers and a long-sleeved shirt the color of rubies, a single pink rose in one hand, and a reusable grocery bag in the other.
His gaze briefly drops from my face to the way the sundress clings to my body, then lifts again. “Wow.”
I take a step back, going for casual but probably landing closer to stiff than anything else. “Come on in.”
My apartment feels somehow smaller and cozier with him in it. Less of a place I exist and more of a place I want to be.
“It smells amazing in here.” Eliot wanders toward the kitchen, takes one look at the pecan pie and fresh bread, and turns back to me. “You made all of this?”
“I don’t get an excuse to cook much. I had to prove I still remember how.” The small smile feels forced. Everything feels forced at the moment.
Eliot sets the grocery bag on the counter next to the pie, and turns to offer me the rose. “It ain’t much, but…”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” I grab a pint glass from the cabinet and fill it with water for the bloom, shrugging as I cut the end of the stem and place it in the water. “I don’t actually own a vase.”
“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Eliot says, stepping close enough I catch the scent of his cologne. Something woodsy and warm that draws me in. “You deserve flowers often enough to need at least one.”
My first instinct is to deflect. To tell him I work so much, any flowers I get will wither and die, unappreciated. Instead, I swallow the brutal honesty. “So…what are we havin’ for breakfast?”
“It’s a surprise.” Eliot’s brown eyes crinkle at the edges. He pulls a bottle of cabernet from the bag, sets it on the counter, and gestures to my fridge. “Can I?”
“Go ahead.” I rummage in one of the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew. “You can sit...if you want. This kitchen’s a tight fit for two people.”
“I don’t mind being close to you.” The rough tone to his voice sends heat crawling up my neck to my cheeks. “But if I’m in the way…”
“You’re not.” Our eyes meet briefly. I hold the wine bottle like a shield in front of me, still not sure where we stand after yesterday morning. We both apologized. But there’s so much more I need to say to him.
Bracing the bottle against my hip, I peel off the foil and start threading the corkscrew. After two turns, my hand simply…gives up. The ache from this afternoon flares so quickly, it steals my breath.
“You all right?” Eliot takes a step closer, concern pinching his brows.
“Fine. I just remembered how much I hate this corkscrew. Mind finishing it up? I’ll get the glasses.” I practically thrust the bottle at him, the tool sticking up at an awkward angle, and breathe a sigh of relief when he takes it without question.
Of course, he makes the damn thing look easy. It is easy. For anyone who doesn’t have nerve damage they hide from the world. And who didn’t spend the entire day working their hands past the point of exhaustion.
I manage not to drop the glasses, and Eliot pours for both of us.
“To startin’ over?” He lifts his glass, hope lighting up his brown eyes.
“I don’t want to start over. Our first kiss was pretty damn hot. Seems a shame to pretend it didn’t happen.” This smile is easier. Lighter. “To not running away from the things that scare us.”
He pauses, the glass wobbling in his hand.
Shit. I got too real, too fast.
But after what must be a full three seconds, he nods. “To doin’ the scary shit. And stayin’.”
We toast, standing in the middle of my tiny-ass kitchen, the heat from the stove flushing my cheeks.
“Is it any good?” he asks. “The wine? I can’t remember the last time I bought a bottle.”
“It’s…red?”
We stare at one another for a beat, then we both start laughing at the idea that we’re drinking something we know nothing about, simply because we’re supposed to.
“I have Shiner,” I offer. “If you’d rather…”
“Maybe later.” He slides his hand into my hair, leans closer, and brushes his lips to mine. It’s a tame kiss by any standards, but it settles a part of me that’s been on edge since yesterday morning.
I gesture to the couch. “We could relax for a bit. The stew won’t mind.”
Eliot follows me, sitting close enough our knees would touch if we moved even an inch. He takes another sip of wine, then stares into the glass like it holds all the answers in the world. “About yesterday…”
“We don’t have to—”
“Yes. We do.” He sets the glass on the coffee table and runs a hand through his hair. “The broken parts of me can’t be fixed. I’ll have pain every day for the rest of my life, and there ain’t a damn thing you—or anyone—can do about it.”
His voice gets softer with every word.
“But that don’t mean I get to snap at you. Or storm off and slam the door like a five-year-old.”
“So…why’d you do it? I wasn’t trying to fix you, Eliot. I know burns don’t heal like other wounds. But I’m also human. Seeing a man I care for in pain… What else was I supposed to do? Say nothing?”
“No. That’s why I’m tryin’ to apologize.
” He lifts his gaze, and the raw emotion in his eyes squeezes my heart until it aches.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. The only people who’ve seen me without a shirt on since”—he rubs his sternum with his knuckles until his breath settles—”in seven years, are doctors, nurses, and physical therapists.
I don’t go to the gym. I wear long sleeves and pants no matter how hot it is outside.
Hell, I don’t even look at myself in the mirror after I shower.
And then you come along and just…accept everything about me that’s broke without batting an eye.
” Reaching for his wine, he takes another healthy swig.
“I think I was scared that you saw the ugly truth of what I live with every day and changed your mind.”
I lean closer, resting my free hand carefully in the center of his chest. “This okay?”
He nods.
“I haven’t changed my mind. If things don’t work out between us, it sure as shit ain’t gonna have anything to do with your body. We clear on that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his shoulders relaxing for the first time tonight.
“You did the hard thing first.” As his heartbeat settles under my palm, mine decides to take up Irish step dancing.
“I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve.
Or couldn’t work around somehow. My job—my whole life—has always required me to stay in control.
Yesterday morning, I saw you in pain, and I wanted to help.
Not fix. Help. That could have looked like sittin’ with you until it passed or getting you an ice pack or distracting you with all the random trivia I know because my partner is a walking, talking encyclopedia. ”
Eliot chuckles. “He really is.”
“You have no idea. Do not ever go on a stakeout with him. The last time, I was actively searching for ways to perform a lobotomy with a set of car keys.”
“On him? Or on yourself?”
“By hour six, I didn’t care.” I drop my hand to my thigh, plucking at the hem of my sundress while I search for the right words to tell him the rest. “When you slammed the door, the only option I had left—the only one I could control—was leaving.”
Eliot covers my hand with his. “We both made mistakes. And I reckon we’ll make more. But can we agree that next time, we’ll stay in the room and figure things out together?”
The heat of him seeps into every part of me. His eyes darken, the emotion in them dangerously real. I don’t look away, hoping he understands that whatever this is between us, I feel it too. “We stay in the room. Together.”