18. Ford #2
Squeezing the back of my neck, I sit on the edge of the table and take her in.
The sundress she chose for our date rides up on her thighs, making her relatively innocent choice nothing short of a red flag in front of a bull.
She’s gorgeous. Her milky smooth skin messes with my head.
The light dimples playing peekaboo just beneath the hem of her baby blue dress.
I tear my attention from the view, determined to play gentleman despite being the furthest thing from one.
Plucking a blanket from the back of the couch, I throw it over her.
I’d offer to help her change into sweats, but I’m only so strong. The blanket will have to do.
Now what?
Standing, I grab a garbage can from the kitchen, scoop all of the used tissues into the bin, and put it back beneath the sink. Infected tissues taken care of. Check. I wash my hands in the kitchen sink, then look around the small apartment.
Okay, now what?
Do I leave? Stay? Where’s Violet, anyway?
I glance toward the front door, then shake my head.
It doesn’t matter. I could always call Bryan, but…
fuck that guy. If he can take care of her, I can, too, dammit.
Trouble is, I don’t have a caregiving bone in my body.
Or at least, I haven’t before. Sitting on the edge of the coffee table again, I wipe my palms against my jeans, studying the rise and fall of June’s chest.
What can I do, June Bug? What would you do?
She’s probably an excellent caregiver. Bet she’d have a pot of soup on the stove and everything. Hmm. I press my hand to her forehead, confirming my suspicion. She’s burning up. Medicine. She needs medicine.
“Do you have any allergies to medication?” I ask.
The pressure against my hand intensifies as her head rolls to one side, and she leans into me. “Huh?”
My mouth lifts. “Where do you keep your medicine?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
I stand, wiping my palms against my thighs again. “I’ll be right back.”
The place is as small as I remember. Short hallway.
One small bedroom, and a single bathroom the size of a coat closet.
I step down the short hall and into the bathroom.
I can’t help but inspect the tiny space.
It feels like her. Sunshine yellow towels.
Navy blue shower curtain with a daisy print.
My mouth lifts as I drag my fingertips against the flower-shaped hand soap.
She likes daisies.
Snapping myself out of, fuck, I don’t even know what it is, I open the cabinet and grab some Tylenol, returning with the bottle.
After filling up a glass of water from the kitchen faucet, I perch beside June on the edge of the couch and urge her to sit up.
Her muted groan filters through the air as she takes the offering and glass, swallowing the pills with a small sip.
Satisfied, I lean forward and set the glass on the coffee table in front of us.
“There we go.” Her eyelids quiver, but she doesn’t lie back down.
The girl’s delirious. Cute, but delirious. “Want to lie down again?” I ask.
With a quiet moan, she lays her head on my shoulder instead. “Feels better to sit up,” she decides. “Like I’m not choking on my own mucus.”
Gross.
My mouth lifts, but I settle back on the couch. It’s not exactly what I planned for the evening, but for some reason, it’s almost better. June and me. In her space. No eyes. No expectations. No pretending. I can finally let go of the facade and just…be.
“Thanks, Ford,” she whispers. “You’re a good guy.”
A good guy. Anyone who really knows me knows I’m the furthest thing from a good guy.
I can’t be. None of us Hardens can. One sign of weakness, of empathy, and we’ll be eaten alive.
Still, the idea of June Withers looking at me like I’m an actual decent human being is…
refreshing, almost. Not based in reality, but refreshing, nonetheless.
Then again, it’s June. She’s incapable of seeing anything but the best in people, even if it makes her a little delusional.
“A good guy,” she repeats, though I can’t decide whether or not the words are for me. They’re nothing but a mumbled, jumbled mess with a quiet airiness that makes me feel lighter than a feather. Or at least, it would if I didn’t know any better.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say dryly.
“Mm-hmm.” Her warm breath seeps through the fabric covering my collarbone.
She smells good. I turn my head and breathe her in.
Like sugar and spice and everything nice.
And the feel of her curves pressed against me?
Fuck me, it’s close to heaven, and we haven’t even done anything.
We never would do anything. She’s too good.
Too sweet and kind and thoughtful and…perfect.
I’m not sure how I manage to grab her remote without jostling a lethargic June from my shoulder as I flip through the channels and find an NCAA game, but I do.
Shifting ever so slightly, I pull out my phone and get some work done.
Running numbers. Reaching out to customers.
Looking into the logistics of running a sprinkler system at the old carnival grounds, which is not cheap, in case you’re wondering.
After a solid thirty minutes, I set my phone down and lean my head against the couch cushion while June stays snuggled against me.
I glance down at her, finding the slightest flurry of her long lashes as she sniffles quietly. Something in my chest warms, and I resist the temptation to lean closer and skim my lips against the crown of her head.
“I have a confession,” I murmur. “I lied before.”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t look like shit when you answered the door earlier.”
Her eyes stay closed, but her forehead bunches as if she’s trying to compute my words.
If I thought she was fully capable, I likely wouldn’t have said it at all.
I can’t help myself, though. There’s something about this girl.
Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Something I shouldn’t want to put my finger on. Figuratively and literally.
Oh boy, is it literal.
The girl’s fucking gorgeous, even when she’s coughing like a seal and burning up from a fever.
“Liar,” she mutters as if just now piecing together what I’m referring to.
“Already confessed.”
“I mean this time,” she clarifies.
I rest my cheek against the top of her head. “Deny it all you want, but you’re gorgeous.”
She snuggles closer. “Mm-hmm. Sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oh?”
“As ED,” I confirm.
I can feel her smile against my skin. Something swells in my chest. Pride. Warmth. Affection.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” she whispers.
“Anytime, June Bug.” The words roll off my tongue with an ease I don’t expect. I don’t take care of people. I cut and run. Every. Single. Time. But, June? She makes the idea feel like Velcro on silk.
I don’t want to run. Not from her.
And that? Is scary as hell.