Chapter 32 #2
“Lenny,” he says, testing it, and my heart does a flip at his tone. His other hand lifts, and he drags it over the top of his own head first, palm flattening his messy hair, then reaches forward and places it lightly on top of mine, comparing our height. “Huh.” He squints thoughtfully.
“What, huh?”
“You’re almost the same height as me when I’m sitting.” He lowers his hand, but the other one is still resting loosely at my waist. “You’re so damn short.”
“That better not be an insult.”
His gaze drifts over my face slowly. “Everything about you is cute.”
I cross my arms. “I genuinely can’t tell if that was a compliment.”
“It was.”
“A suspicious one.”
“It’s not often I’m wrong about someone. It’s a peculiar feeling.”
“And?”
A soft exhale leaves him. The hand at my waist shifts, like he’s settling into it. “Can’t say I care for it much.”
And suddenly, I’m very aware that I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing lemon pajamas, hair a disaster, barefoot, next to the guy who usually only invades my dreams. My brain short-circuits, so I turn and walk out of the bedroom before I do something stupid, like climbing on his lap again, asking him for some more pets.
“Hey.” The wheels start moving immediately behind me. “Where are you going? I’m still complaining.”
“I’m making coffee.”
“I’m not done.”
“You can complain while I make coffee.”
He’s quiet for a beat, which I take as agreement. “Fine. But I want you to know, the pacing in chapter seven of your romance alone is—”
“Ridge.”
“I’m just saying, for someone who reads a lot, your standards are surprisingly—”
“Do you want coffee or not?”
There’s a pause, then, right behind me, very quietly comes, “Yes, please.”
I open the cupboard and pull out the instant coffee and two mugs. The kettle clicks on, but behind me, Ridge makes a disgusted little sound.
“What the hell is that?”
“Coffee.”
“That is not coffee.” He sounds personally offended.
“This or nothing.”
“Nothing then.”
“Too late.”
The kettle finishes, and I pour hot water into both mugs before holding one back toward him. He stares down into it as if I’ve offered him something that needs to be reported to the authorities.
“Tragic,” he mutters.
“Drink it or don’t.”
I take mine and head back toward the bedroom, and he follows. “Sorry, I don’t have a couch. So, bed it is.”
He stops in front of it when I sit down and gestures at the wheelchair with one hand. “I brought my own seat, but thanks.”
“Shit,” I close my eyes and wince. “I’m sorry, that was—”
“Relax.” He almost smiles. “You’re fine.”
I sip my coffee and watch as he takes a sip of his, making a face and drinking it anyway. We sit with that for a moment, until he visibly can’t take it anymore.
“You don’t have questions about the chair?”
“I guess what I saw last night was how you got there.”
“Yep.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
I shrug. “Okay. Let me know when you change your mind.”
His shoulders relax, and he takes another sip of the tragic coffee. “Does it bother you?” There’s something almost careful in the question. Not vulnerable exactly, just stripped of the usual Ridge layer.
“Why would it?” I look at him over my mug. “You’re still an asshole. The chair didn’t change that.”
He lets out a long breath, and with it, the last of the tension in the room goes somewhere else.
Then I ask, because I can’t not, “Does it bother you?”
“Every single day.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but the words stay there. He doesn’t take them back. Doesn’t dress them up. Doesn’t make a joke. For once, he lets something be ugly.
His gaze shifts after a while, landing on my nail set on the floor beside the bed, then he leans forward slightly, studying it. “I saw that your nail is chipped when you snoozed on top of me.”
“What?”
He points. “Your index finger. Looks pretty gross, honestly.”
I gasp and inspect it. He’s right. The polish has cracked clean across the nail, which feels like a personal insult on top of everything else.
“Yeah.” He leans back. “You should fix it. Preferably back to the lemon ones.”
“When I’m a functional human again.” I pull my hand back. “Which requires fresh clothes, teeth brushing, and at least fifteen minutes of staring at a wall first.”
He considers that, his eyes dropping to my nail kit on the floor, then to my chipped nail, then back up, as if he’s talking himself into something. “I think I want mine done, too, when you’re done with yours.”
I lower my mug and look at him.
“The word please exists,” I tell him. “Fine. But I don’t have all day, so they’re going to be plain black and not whatever checkerboard pattern you clearly want.”
“Rude.”
“I have things to do today.”
“Such as?”
“Cakes. Food. A party tonight.” I slide a foot under me. “Nevan’s birthday at the Bennetts’ Inn. It’s open to guests, too, so it’s not just…” I catch his expression. “Why are you making that face?”
I know that face.
“It’s the boy toy’s birthday?”
“And Halloween, yes. Don’t call him that.”
“Fine… your baby boy.”
“Ridge.”
“You’re very tall, very devoted—”
“Ridge.”
He holds up his free hand, chuckling, and drops it.
I sip my coffee. “Do you want to come or not?”
He glances at me. “To the baby boy’s birthday party?”
“I talked to Derek yesterday about Tessa. And I invited him too. He’s coming.”
“You talked to my cousin?”
That gets his full attention.
“Yeah, I should have done it that way sooner. I think he could be the missing piece, but I’m still figuring out how to play that.” I point at Ridge over the rim of my mug. “Which means you dragging me around in dreams isn’t the only plan anymore.”
He looks down at his mug. “You have to be careful. This Man told me he’d leave me alone if I left you alone. He doesn’t want us to do anything about Tessa.”
“And yet,” I say quietly. “Here you are.”
That wasn’t part of the deal.
He looks up. “Here I am.”
“Even more reason to do something.” I hold his gaze. “We don’t let bullies win.”
Even if we don’t know the rules yet.
He doesn’t say anything to that, just looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read, then drops his eyes to the floor. To the wheels. To the bedroom doorway and whatever calculation he’s running about it.
“So,” I say. “You coming or not?” When he doesn’t answer, I add, “The inn is wheelchair accessible.”
He studies the floor for another moment, and I let him, because it’s not a question about access, and we both know it. I don’t know exactly what the question is about, though, but I know it matters, and I know better than to push.
“I’ll think about it.”