Chapter 16 #2
She leans over to adjust a chair, and I catch a flash of warm, tanned skin at her lower back.
Shit.
“Hey, Nev,” she greets casually as she passes me.
“Hey,” I manage, and it comes out normal. Almost smooth, even.
She just greeted me.
I duck into the kitchen under the excuse of washing my hands, but the second I push past the swing doors, the smell hits me.
Lemonade.
I stop in the doorway, and relief hits me so hard I have to take a second to breathe through it.
Lemon is standing at the prep station as if she belongs there, hair pulled into a ponytail with that yellow bandana tied over it, apron cinched around a long brown sweater that brushes her thighs when she moves.
Her knife work is clean, confident, and she’s focused on the cutting board, completely in her element.
She’s okay. She came back.
The knot that’s been sitting in my chest since yesterday finally loosens.
She glances up at the sound of the door, and the second her blue eyes meet mine, a smile blooms across her face. “Hey, you.”
“Hey, yourself.” I move toward her without really deciding to, and suddenly I’m close enough to see the flush creeping across her cheeks. Close enough to see…
Fuck.
The angry red rash on her temple peeking out from under her bandana.
My hands move before I can stop them, tilting her face so I can get a better look. “What happened?”
She huffs out a small laugh. “The pavement.”
“Not funny.” I keep my voice level even though ice is sliding through me. “They told me you had an accident, but not what actually happened. I’ve been trying to figure out if I should be mildly concerned or planning a funeral.”
Her expression softens. “You were worried about me?”
“Yeah, Lemon. I was worried.” I pull out my phone and hand it to her. “Put your number in.”
She scrunches up her nose at me. “Ever heard of the word please?”
“Put your number in, please,” I say, adding a grin to soften it. “Next time you hurt yourself, I can call and get the actual story instead of finding out thirdhand from Paul Bennett, of all people.”
She laughs quietly at that, shaking her head, but she takes the phone anyway. “You know him?”
“Sort of. Do you?”
“Sort of.” Her fingers move quickly, and I watch how her mouth curves while she types, like she’s trying not to smile too hard.
What is that about?
She hands it back, and I still when I read the name on the screen. I read it again, and another time to be sure, but the letters stay the same.
“Lennon?”
“Yes?” she answers, eyebrows lifting.
Shit. Did I mishear her before? I could’ve sworn she said Lemon. Then again, I’m not exactly known for getting letters right the first time.
Or the second.
But until now, I have always at least heard them right.
“I can put Lemon if you prefer. I like the nickname.” She smiles and blushes even deeper, causing my brain to malfunction.
I hold the phone out to her again. She takes it and changes the contact from Lennon to Lemon, then presses call so it rings from somewhere in her bag behind us.
“Okay.” I take the phone back and pocket it. “Now spill.” I gesture toward her temple. “What actually happened?”
“Remember how I told you that your mom said I was going to die?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
It’s been looping in my head since I heard you got hurt.
“Well, she might’ve saved my life.”
“What do you mean, saved your life?”
She shrugs, way too casually. “I got run over by a car.”
“You what?”
“Well, not actually run over,” she rushes to add. “The car just clipped me. More like nipped me, I guess?”
“Nipped you,” I repeat. “A car fucking nipped you?”
My mom could have been right for the first time in her life. My mom, who I stopped expecting anything from years ago, accidentally kept someone alive.
I don’t know what to do with that.
Lennon could have died.
Would that have been my mom’s fault?
Or mine because I shrugged it off?
“Hey.” Lennon presses her palm to my chest. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
I focus on the heat of her hand through my hoodie and take a deep breath.
She’s fine. She’s standing right here.
Her fingers flex, and I look down to catch the scrape on her hand, red and raw. I take her wrist and turn her palm up, where there’s more torn skin.
“Fuck.”
She could’ve died. And I made a joke about it.
“Nevan?” Her voice is soft, uncertain.
All the warmth drains out of me at once, replaced by a hollow, buzzing ache.
She could have fucking died, and I laughed at her.
“Nevan?” Lennon asks hesitantly when I stare.
“That must’ve hurt.” My thumb brushes lightly over the inside of her wrist, below the raw wound.
“A little.”
A little.
I meet her eyes, manage a small smile even though my throat feels tight. “You’re a terrible liar.”
She smirks just as the kitchen doors swing open.
Paul Bennett steps inside, holding a tumbler covered in tiny gold stars. Lennon snatches her hand away as if we’ve been caught in the act, and, suddenly, I want to snap at Paul for interrupting before I could check her for more injuries.
“Hey,” Paul greets her with a smile, and she gives him one of hers in return.
I shift my weight, suddenly very aware that I’m still standing close to her. I should probably step back. Give them space.
I don’t.
“Hey, Nevan,” Paul says, glancing at me.
“Dr. Bennett.” I nod.
His expression shifts to almost amused. “I told you yesterday, you can call me Paul.”
“Right. Paul.” I lean back against the prep counter, trying for casual.
Yeah.
I definitely hated yesterday.
“Dr. Bennett?” Lennon asks. “No wonder you were able to patch me up that well.”
“Not that kind of doctor,” I say before I can stop myself.
Both of them look at me, and I realize how defensive and petty that sounded.
Great job, Nevan.
“He means I’m a psychologist,” Paul says easily, not bothered at all. “So I can tell you about your emotional wounds, but the physical ones, I google the same as everyone else.”
Lennon laughs, and I watch her reach up to fidget with the crystal pendant.
Still wearing it.
“I guess I should’ve asked that yesterday.” She smiles at him.
Yep, hate yesterday.
“I’m hoping there’ll be plenty more opportunities to get to know each other,” Paul adds.
I focus on a spot on the wall behind them. Very interesting wall. Great brickwork.
“I’m sorry,” he continues, shifting the tumbler in his hand before holding it out to her. “I know I said I’d bring the rest of your things to your place, but I had to do some shopping first and ended up running late. So I figured I’d at least bring you this and apologize.”
“Thank you.” Lennon takes the cup, looking genuinely touched. “That’s nice of you.”
The kitchen feels a little too full all of a sudden.
Or maybe I don’t know where to stand anymore.
“Would it be okay if I stopped by tomorrow afternoon around four to bring the rest?”
Tomorrow.
I do a quick mental check of the reservation system, the dinner bookings, and anything I could pretend needs doing tomorrow at four.
Nothing.
Great.
“Sure,” she says, blushing. “That sounds great.”
I should check the dining room, make sure Sydney has everything she needs. Literally anything else. Instead, I stay exactly where I am and watch Paul reach for Lennon’s hand, turning it palm-up to inspect the abrasion the same way I…
Huh.
He does it better.
Slower and way more careful. He’s so careful with her, but it’s not tentative, it’s… precise?
I don’t know how to feel about that.
I also don’t know how to feel about the fact that she’s blushing the same way she blushed when I called her Lemon ten minutes ago, and hate that the two things are now sitting side by side in my head, being aggressively compared.
“It already looks better,” Paul murmurs with a smile.
“Yeah,” Lennon agrees, smiling back up at him. “I told you, you did good work.”
He cups her cheek, thumb gliding carefully under the scratch on her temple, and her breath catches.
Suddenly, the copper pot rack overhead fascinates me. When did we get that installed? Has it always been there?
“This looks better too. I’m glad,” Paul murmurs before stepping away. “Okay, I’ll let you work your magic, but I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”
“Same.” Lennon hugs the tumbler as if it’s precious.
He presses a kiss to her cheek because, of course, he does, then straightens and turns to me. “See you around, Nevan.”
“Yeah. See you.” I manage a polite nod and something that probably resembles a smile.
I don’t know why any of this is bothering me.
I don’t.
The doors swing shut behind him, and I count to three before I let myself relax. “So.” I turn back to Lennon, going for casual. “Let me guess… he was your knight in shining armor? Showed up right after the accident, patched you up, saved the day?”
It would make sense. The guy has that whole caretaker thing going on.
Lennon snorts. “No. He was the one who ran me over.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“He hit me with his car,” she repeats, way too casually. “On the crosswalk.”
He almost killed her.
My body decides violence is a reasonable next step, and I push off the counter. “I need to go have a conversation with—”
“Nevan, no—” Her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, but my momentum jerks her forward. She hisses and releases me, cradling her hand to her chest.
“Shit, sorry.” I reach for her hand, but she pulls it away from me.
“It’s fine,” she says quickly, flexing her fingers. “It was an accident. He apologized.”
I don’t care for how easily she brushes it off.
“Oh, well, then. If he said sorry, I guess almost killing you is totally cool.”
She rolls her eyes. “He didn’t do it intentionally, dummy.”
The word grates against my already frayed nerves, and I have to take a couple of breaths before I can muster a shrug. “If you say so.”
“So… you know him well?” she asks.
“Not really. He’s old.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Old? Wow.”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m old too?”
Wait, why does she sound hurt?
“No?” I say, looking her over. “Why would I think that? You’re like… my age.”
“I’m not.”
I frown. “You’re what, twenty-eight?”
“Thirty-five.”
My brows furrow as I look her up and down again.
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”