Chapter 14
“Where did you get that?” Elijah asked when I found him in the office again after my trip down the street.
“At the restaurant next door.” I held up the ziplock bag full of ice. In my other hand were the black wraps I’d taken off my hands while waiting for said ice. I set them on the corner of his desk.
“You’re going to give me a bad reputation,” he said.
“They don’t know you’re human? Who do they suspect you are? Wolverine? He’s the one who can heal himself super-fast, yes?”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what they think.” He was standing at a file cabinet, putting something away.
“Sit down,” I said.
“Sutton, I’m fine. I promise. I’ve been punched in the face before.”
“You have? Why?” I remembered the thin scar going through his right eyebrow. I wondered if that was from getting punched.
“Because I work in a boxing gym.”
“Fair point.” I nodded to his office chair. “Will you just sit down? Please. I already have one difficult patient at home, I don’t need another.”
I don’t know what he saw on my face—exhaustion, perhaps—but he sat down without another word.
I stepped in front of him and pressed the ice against his jaw. I should’ve grabbed some napkins while I was at it, but I hadn’t. “Tell me if it’s too cold.”
“Okay.” He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground.
The top of his head was nearly brushing my stomach.
One of his hands was brushing the side of my leg, resting there.
His skin on mine created a heat I wasn’t expecting.
I stared at the back of his neck and had a strong desire to dig my fingers into his hair—something else I wasn’t expecting. I swallowed.
“I could help you figure out how to put the score sheets in Excel,” I blurted out. I really did feel bad about punching him. “It would do all the adding and grouping for you.”
“What?” he asked.
“For the tournament. To save your ass all that pain. I’m really good at Excel.”
He let out a chuckle. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but let me know if you want me to.”
He nodded. “What did you think about today?” he asked. “About hitting things. Not me, but the other things.”
“Surprisingly therapeutic.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Who needs therapy when they have some gloves and a bag?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Close enough.”
“Does Tara come here to punch things?”
“Of course. You know Tara.”
It did seem like her.
“She didn’t think you would come here,” he said. His voice made it seem like he won some side bet about that. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
“Yeah, well, that was high school me.”
“You’re different now?”
“Yes,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure if I was. My mom was still dictating my schedule, after all.
“How long do I have to do this to make you feel better?” He gestured to the ice and smiled up at me.
“A little longer,” I said.
“You make a good nurse,” he said.
“No, I, I really don’t…” I took a step back, bringing the ice with me. “You’re probably good now.” It was hard to tell. The ice had made his jaw even more red. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“Possibly.”
My hand was cold and water dripped from the bag, through my fingers and onto the floor. “I should go.”
He remained seated, leaning back in the chair. “When can I do my homework?”
“What?”
“Your mom.”
I shook my head. “No, never.”
“So I get to look bad at our next session, and you get to look like the supportive fiancée?”
“Coming to my house. Being around my mom. That’s different.”
“It’s not that different.”
I took another step back, toward the door, water still dripping through my fingers. “It’s my house.”
“Technically, it’s your mom’s house, right? I’d like to help.”
“I don’t need help from you.”
His eyebrows popped up. “Ouch.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You punched me in the face, Sutton, and I let you help me. Let me help you.”
“That makes no sense. I punched you in the face. You’ve done nothing to warrant owing me a favor.”
“I let you help me. That’s what I did. And I’ll let you help me with this spreadsheet thing. Now I owe you a favor.”
“Fine,” I spat out, surprising myself.
I think I surprised him too because he immediately grabbed a pen from the jar on the desk and a scrap piece of paper and said, “What’s your address?” like he knew I was going to change my mind if he didn’t write it down as fast as humanly possible.
I was already regretting it as I told him the address.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“You don’t work tomorrow?”
“I have some flexibility, being the son of the owner and all that.” There was a darkness to his words when he said them. A story there. I didn’t know what. I didn’t need to.