Chapter Forty-Five
AJ
We fell into a comfortable kind of domestic partnership. One where I would go to work, then come home to find that Atlas had done an online grocery order to save me from having to go out and do it, just bring it in and put it away.
Then I would make dinner.
And he would usually work at my puzzle or toss Samson’s toys across the house for him while I cooked.
I helped him transfer from the couch to the chair and back again, so he didn’t fall.
Some days, his family perceptively had come around when I was gone to help him get in and out of the shower because he was clean and changed and there was a new shower chair in the hall bathroom.
Occasionally, there would be food in the fridge that his loved ones had dropped off. Some of them even came with cards with little scribbles or sketches from, obviously, the children.
Each time I saw one of those things, my heart squeezed a bit in my chest, seeing how big his circle was, how loved he was.
I wondered if he appreciated it. Because I constantly found him on a laptop that appeared one day, scouting out new trips to take, ones that wouldn’t be as physically taxing on him as he was still weak and recovering.
He was in such a hurry to get well… just to leave again.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
But, I guess, we came from different lives. And I couldn’t begin to understand why Atlas lived the way he did. Not without details about his life.
“What are you doing?” I asked, coming into the kitchen to find Atlas on his office chair with the back door opened, letting in the cool air.
“Christ,” he hissed, wincing as he looked over at me. “Seems like your old lady hobbies are rubbing off on me.”
“You’re watching the birds, aren’t you?” I asked.
“The bluejays won’t let the cardinals eat the peanuts.”
“The cardinals can eat out of the feeder,” I told him. “The jays are too big. Don’t feel too bad for the cardinals.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Samson is chasing the leaves.”
“He might not be the brightest dog, but he sure is entertaining,” I said.
“How long have you had him?” Atlas asked.
I felt myself tense. A knee-jerk reaction whenever anyone asked me about things that involved my past.
“A few years,” I told him. “He was the cutest puppy.” A tiny little bright spot in an otherwise dark period of my life.
“A complete terror, but cute. He used to try to eat everything. He had this thing for socks. I used to have to keep all my laundry in a closed plastic container, or he would try to scarf them down.”
I used to live in fear that he would eat something that would cause an obstruction. And there would be no money for surgery. Then what? They’d put him down?
“You okay?” Atlas asked, brows pinched as he looked at me.
“Fine,” I said, forcing a smile as I tamped those memories down. “So, what do you want for dinner?” I asked.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been cooking nonstop for three weeks,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t you want a break? How about you take the night off?”
“We could do that,” I agreed.
I actually really loved to cook. I especially loved cooking for him. He was like a little kid each time you put a plate in front of him. Plowing in, gushing about it, demanding to know what was in it. He asked for seconds while complaining that he was gaining weight.
“I got an idea,” he said, eyes bright.
“That’s a mischievous look,” I said.
“How about we go out to eat?” he suggested.
I felt a little skipping in my heartbeat that I tried to ignore. It wasn’t the first time. Actually, I’d been having it a lot lately. I would have gone to see a doctor about it if I hadn’t realized it only ever happened around Atlas.
Like when his arms went around me when I helped him transfer. Like when we sat side-by-side on the couch, and his arm would brush me.
When he would call me ‘sweetheart.’
“We could do that,” I said, trying not to sound as excited as I felt.
We were closing in on a month of him being back in his house with me. But, somehow, I’d become even more reclusive than I’d been before. I didn’t even go food shopping much because he ordered delivery.
Aside from work, I spent all my time in the house.
While I actually kind of liked being holed up with Atlas, the idea of going out with him was even more exciting.
“I would normally say Famiglia,” he said.
“But all those steps,” I filled in for him, thinking of the big Italian place built on, like, stilts over the Navesink River. It was a gorgeous place I’d fantasized about visiting more than a few times since moving to the area, all the while knowing it was way out of my budget.
“Haven’t been around enough to know of anywhere else,” Atlas admitted.
“We could… drive around and pick a place,” I suggested.
“I like the way you think,” he declared. “Alright. Scoot me to the room. I’m gonna get into something decent.”
I actually liked him in his casual sleep pants and t-shirts.
Did I like it because the tees would sometimes cling to his midsection, and give me the view of abs under there? Or have the material bulge over his biceps?
I mean, I wasn’t proud of it, but yeah.
And as for the pants? Yeah, that part I was really, really not proud of. But, well, you know… sometimes if I would come out at night for a snack or a drink, or if I got up earlier than him, and he was sleeping and having, you know, happy dreams…
Ugh, I felt like a predator for even thinking that, let alone fantasizing about it.
I honestly had never really ever had much of a sex drive in the past, so I didn’t understand why I was suddenly thinking about Atlas in that way.
“Did I lose you?” Atlas asked, shooting me that sweet, boyish smirk.
“Nope. I was just thinking about what I should wear,” I said. And then I was thinking just that. Obsessing, in fact, about it. “You’re not wearing a suit, are you?” I asked.
“Don’t think I could fit one over my cast,” he said.
“Okay. Then I have stuff to wear,” I said, grabbing the back of his chair, and pushing him down the hall.
I wasn’t sure why he insisted on using the office chair in the house since his electric wheelchair was delivered two weeks before.
He used the wheelchair to go out with his family for doctor visits and whatnot. But in the house, he always used the office chair.
I was inclined to believe it was because he was used to being physical, and using the office chair allowed him to use his good leg to scoot around still, get a small bit of exercise.
“Do you need any help?” I asked when he was in the guest room. He still didn’t sleep there, but he kept all his clothes and personal items in it, so he didn’t clutter up the living room.
This time, his smirk wasn’t quite so sweet and boyish, and was a lot more devilish. “Wouldn’t mind you undressing me, sweetheart,” he said, and there was that little skipping beat again, “but I can manage.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering if my face looked as heated as it felt. “I’m right across the hall if you change your mind,” I said, then rushed into my room, and closed the door, leaning against it until my heartbeat went back to a normal rhythm.
Then I went ahead and fretted about my outfit in a way that I hadn’t done since high school.
In the end, I settled on my only fall dress—a blue and cream button-up plaid long-sleeved dress with a hem that fell about mid-calf. I paired it with a wide belt for some structure, and a pair of knee-high flat boots to keep my legs warm.
“How’s it going in there?” I called when his door was still closed when I’d finished not only dressing, but adding a little makeup and refreshing my hair.
There was a sigh from the other side.
“I could use a hand,” he admitted, sounding upset about that fact.
I pushed the door open to find him standing, his good leg holding his weight, the cast kind of just balancing him.
He’d managed to get a pair of loose slacks on, though the one leg looked stretched bulkily over his cast. But he was struggling with his shirt—a black button up that he had on one arm, but couldn’t seem to reach around to get his other arm in.
All that fantasizing about what he looked like under his shirt? Worthless. Because my mind didn’t come anywhere near the reality.
Atlas, and all his brothers I’d seen, were all tall and a lean sort of fit. None of them were very bulky. But I guess I’d underestimated just how chiseled abdominal muscles could be without being big.
He didn’t just have a six-pack.
Oh, no.
He had an eight-pack.
And those deep lines near his hips that created a deep V that disappeared into the waistband of his pants.
Evidently, all those stunts Atlas made his lifestyle had etched some delicious muscles.
Delicious?
What the heck was wrong with me?
“Um, here,” I said, praying I hadn’t been staring at him as long as it felt like before I moved in closer, then reached behind him.
Which only made me closer to those abs I’d been ogling. Worse than that, I got to breathe in the scent of his cologne. It was something fresh and cool that made me want to suck in greedy breaths, so I wouldn’t forget it.
But that was crazy, so I grabbed the arm, pretending to ignore that I could feel the heat of him against me as I carefully helped his arm into the sleeve, mindful that it was his bad shoulder.
“God, is that better?” I asked, gaze moving over to his ribs where his bruises were a mix of purple, blue, red, green, and yellow.
“Believe it or not, yeah,” he said, glancing down.
I knew they were feeling better. He wasn’t wincing and hissing when he twisted as much anymore. I imagined if something rammed into that area, he would see stars, but general movements were clearly getting easier.
“Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing toward his buttons.
“Oh, right. Of course,” I said, thinking of his fingers. He was still taping them up, but they didn’t seem to be swollen or too painful anymore.
I reached down for the lowest buttons, fishing the eye through the hole. And trying really, really hard to focus on the task, and not the way my body seemed to be reacting to his nearness.
The way my breathing felt faster and more shallow.