Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
ASPEN
Emmett is elbow deep in Myrtle’s guts when I pull in after a shift that stretched too long.
Walking up the driveway, I find him muttering to himself, grease smeared up the length of his forearms. My pulse stutters, and not just because of the way the overhead light highlights the way his prominent veins bulge and pop as he twists whatever tool is buried in there with him.
He actually did it.
All week he’s made comments—asking questions about the Jeep, about my grandma, about what I remembered from riding shotgun as a kid with the windows down and country music blaring.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
And yet . . .
Here I am, standing stock-still while my heart does stupid things inside my chest.
“Caught red-handed,” I call out.
Emmett jerks upright, his habitual scowl fading to a sheepish grin when he sees me.
“I was just”—he nods toward Myrtle—“figuring out why she won’t start.”
It’s such a simple thing, but I’m not sure how to process it because it’s so damn sweet. And bent over an old Jeep in a black T-shirt with grease on his forearms?
Honestly . . . I’m in trouble.
His expression shifts the second he notices my smile fade.
The hood drops shut.
I cross the garage and plant my heel on the bumper, boosting myself onto the hood before he can start apologizing.
Emmett steps in close, bracketing one hand beside my hip as he leans over me.
“You’re mad.” His head drops, putting his mouth inches from my ear. A little lower and his forehead would be on my shoulder. “I should’ve asked.”
A beat passes before he lifts his head and adds, almost comically, “I’m bored out of my fucking mind.”
My lips twitch. “I’m not mad.”
My eyes drop to the grease streaking his knuckles . . . then trace slowly up the corded line of his forearm.
Bad idea.
“And definitely not for the reason you think.”
He wipes his brow.
“Dr. Chondra didn’t clear you for this.”
The warmth spreading through my chest completely betrays the warning in my voice.
“I’m not doing anything.”
I give him the face I give my patients when I know they’re stretching the truth.
He gives me a sheepish shrug in return. “It’s just some light tinkering.”
I study his face for fatigue, then lift my hand, brushing my thumb over the bruised skin next to his stitches.
“Tell you what, if you humor me and call it quits for tonight, I’ll take out those stitches for you.”
That gets his attention, and the corner of his mouth kicks up in what could almost be considered a smile. Those damn blue eyes swallow me whole when they drop to my lips.
I lean back just enough to break the spell and they lift again.
“Thank fuck. They’re itchy as hell.”
“I bet they are.” My nose wrinkles as I look up at him. “And you’re getting them dirty.”
He drops the rag and straightens with a wince. I pretend not to notice.
“Get cleaned up.” A slide off the hood. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit.”
The sound of a baseball game drifts through the open loft window as I climb the stairs, the first-aid kit clutched in my hand.
Emmet’s at the sink, scrubbing grease from his hands, damp hair curling at his forehead. It’s one of those rare moments where he looks unburdened.
Pausing in the doorway, I watch until he lifts his head and spots me.
The grin he sends my way has my pulse picking up.
There’s something different about him tonight.
He seems lighter. Like a man who’s settled in his own skin—one who’s getting pieces of himself back.
And that does something to me I’m not ready to examine too closely. Because the more he heals, the more I remember he’s leaving.
“Got the kit,” I say, setting it on the counter, trying to ignore my swirling emotions.
“I can’t wait to sleep without these,” he says, drying his hands. “They keep snagging on my pillow.”
I step in when he moves away from the sink, reaching for the soap and counting the seconds in my head.
“Why don’t you take the stool?” I tilt my head in the direction of the island. “That should put you at the right height.”
The scrape of the metal legs on the wood floor fills the loft as he drags the stool into place.
“It should be easy. Just a little tug, but no pain.”
“I can handle it.”
Of course he can.
I step closer, my knees brushing his as I move between them.
“Just because you can doesn’t mean I want you to.” I hold his eyes with mine. “If anything hurts, tell me.”
The intensity in his stare doesn’t fade, but something in him eases as he nods. It looks an awful lot like trust.
Before I start, I check the gash again, making sure it’s closed and healed, then carefully swipe an antiseptic wipe over the area.
Emmett’s eyes flick to mine.
“You’re sure I didn’t overstep before?” he asks.
“I promise,” I assure him. “Just . . . I want you to be careful, okay?”
His hand brushes my leg when he shifts on the stool, and the air stalls in my lungs.
We’re entirely too close for this to feel professional.
The last stitch slides free, and Emmett exhales. “Done?”
My mouth curves. “What? Can’t wait to get away from me?”
The look he gives me could melt steel.
I lift a cotton swab with ointment on it, layering it over the red line of healing skin. Taking his face in my palm, I tip his chin up just slightly, checking the area.
“Now we’re done.”
He leans in. It’s only an inch, but it’s enough to make the air between us crackle.
“You could stick around,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to my lips. “Watch the game. Make sure I don’t pass out from sheer boredom.”
“Is it that bad?”
One shoulder lifts. “Having company might not be the worst thing.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Whoa there. Settle down. I’m not sure I can handle all the flattery.” Biting my lip, I glance over his shoulder to the TV. “The Bandits are winning . . .”
“They won’t.” A devastating grin split his handsome face. “The Diablos always come back.”
Knowing I earned that smile makes it all the better.
It hits me, not for the first time, but maybe the clearest.
Emmett doesn’t feel temporary when we’re like this.
I should put space between us—go back downstairs and read my book. That’s what the emotional adult I claim to be would do.
But the crowd noise has my gaze drifting back to the TV before going back to him.
He’s still—waiting to see what I’ll do, making something inside me give.
“Can we order pizza?”
“I’ll never say no to that.”
While I get comfy on the couch, Emmett orders the pizza. It’s mundane, and shouldn’t make me feel any sort of way, but I like being here with him, like this.
He joins me, dropping onto the couch next to me. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the heat from his body drifts my way.
“Being a Diablos fan is a bold choice. Aren’t they the most hated team in baseball”
His gaze shifts to the side, and I think he’s going to dodge the silent question.
“They were Rory’s team.”
I hold my breath waiting to see if he’ll give me more without pushing or prying.
“She was my aunt, technically, but we were only a year apart, so we acted more like cousins.” Lines crease at the corners of his eyes. “My grandparents were strangers when I was placed with them. I was confused and pissed at the world.”
His eyes stay locked on the game. “Rory never tried to fix me or force anything.”
Emmett’s voice cracks.
“She just waited me out.”
No child should endure half the things Emmett did.
My hand covers his, squeezing, and he lets me.
“She picked the Diablos because she liked their jerseys.” He shakes his head, and I don’t move. I barely breathe because it feels like the smallest twitch will pop this bubble and he’ll stop.“So dumb, but once she realized how much I loved baseball, she clung to that shit, and made it our thing.”
I sneak a glance at him, but his eyes are on the game, sad and misty. He’s struggling to keep his breathing even, fighting the memories.
My voice is barely above a whisper when I speak. “I’m so sorry, Emmett. Losing your parents and then having to move in with people you’d never met . . . I can’t begin to imagine how awful that was.”
“They were addicts who had more bad days than good. Losing them was . . . complicated.” He looks at me for the first time and I can see the pain in his eyes. “Part of me was relieved. How awful is that?”
“It’s not.”
But he shakes his head. “My old man would disappear for three days, chasing his next high, and stroll back in like nothing happened.”
A humorless laugh slips out.
“My mom was better at pretending it was normal . . . when she wasn’t too strung out to notice he was gone, or that the milk had been spoiled for a week. Ending up in the system was the part that scared me the most, though. So when the social worker showed up with my grandparents, I went.”
There’s a beat of heavy silence, and I mourn the little boy who had to build these reinforced walls to keep him safe in his own home. I suck back the tears of anger that want to fall, though, because I don’t want Emmett to get the wrong idea and think this is pity.
But none of it registers with his hand beneath mine.
I don’t pull away.
And he doesn’t, either.
When I finally speak, the anger in my voice barely hides itself. “Those walls you built are their fault, and I hate them for it.”
Emmett’s thumb drags once against my palm.
“That fire’s wasted on me.” The look he gives me feels like it burns straight to my soul. “My parents might’ve given me the need for those walls, but I did plenty to build them—one mistake at a time.”
He still carries the full weight of his grief for Rory, and heavier yet, the blame.
Something in me twists hard enough to make swallowing feel like work.
When he finally moves, it isn’t to put distance between us.
His hand slips free only so he can stretch his arm along the back of the couch, his knuckles brushing my shoulder like he’s testing the idea.
“I’m glad you had Rory after.”
His jaw shifts before he answers. “If it wasn’t for her . . .” He blows out a slow breath. “I’m not so sure I’d be here.”
His fingers flex against the cushion behind me. “I was angry as hell, but her quiet support dragged me out of a hole I wasn’t climbing out of on my own.”
A silence that feels less like grief and more like peace settles over him.
I find myself leaning back until his bicep brushes my skin.
This might be the safest I’ve ever felt.
Until my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I glance down to find Jeremiah’s name.
I lock the screen.
Not tonight, asshole.
On the TV, the announcer’s voice spikes as the Diablos send a line drive into the gap.
Emmett’s focus snaps back to the game, his brow furrowing before a low, satisfied hum slips loose when the runner makes it safely to third.
The sound rolls through me in ways it absolutely shouldn’t.
“Guess you were right,” I say, forcing my voice to stay light. “The Diablos might actually pull this off.”
His mouth tips at one corner.
“Told you.”
Yes, he did.
Emmett Slate doesn’t open up by accident, he makes you earn your way in.