CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emery
Temporary.
That’s the word that comes to mind as I unlock the door to my apartment.
Temporary housing. Temporary furniture. Temporary calm before whatever storm this season decides to throw at me.
And temporary energy, because my body still feels like it’s moving through a fog.
The adrenaline from the day is long gone, leaving behind a dull headache and the faint reminder that last night still lives under my skin no matter how hard I scrubbed it away this morning.
What if Lucas hadn’t come to the bar last night?
Shake it off, Em. Focus on the here and the now. On the convenient accommodations near the training facility that the Rebels set up for you.
On the small, modern apartment, whose plumbing issues have been fixed, and is now ready for you to move into.
Beige walls. Tan couch. Brown metal barstools pushed in at a quartzite countertop that look like they’ve never been sat on before. It’s neutral to the point of being aggressively forgettable.
The space smells faintly like fresh paint and disinfectant, and judging by the sticker still clinging to the refrigerator, I’m probably the first person to live here.
I’m not complaining about that in the least.
I step around the measly mountain of boxes—my entire life reduced to cardboard—that the movers stacked between the couch and the mounted TV. The bedroom is simple but functional. Queen-sized bed. White comforter set. A decent sized shower with separate toilet.
I drop my purse on the dresser and pause, bracing my palms against the edge as a wave of dizziness hits me.
Not panic. Not fear. Just utter exhaustion.
I trail my fingers over the wood as I move back into the living space, taking it all in.
This place isn’t bad. But it feels clinical. And I prefer that feeling stay at work. Thankfully, I don’t have to rush, and I can look for something permanent later. Something with light and character and a life outside of football.
I’ll add some plants. Some touches of color. A few candles here. Something that says a woman lives here, that I live here, and that it’s not just a body that sleeps when she’s not fixing others.
Jared hated bright colors. I’ll make sure this damn place is filled with them.
He thought plants were dirty. I look forward to nurturing something that actually gives me something back. Unlike him.
The job came fast. One phone call. Three Zoom interviews. Calls from previous coworkers telling me my references were being checked. A contract was emailed with a we need you now urgency that didn’t leave room for hesitation.
So I jumped.
For once in my life, I didn’t overanalyze. I didn’t hedge. I didn’t wait for permission.
This look-before-you-leap woman, just fucking leaped. On the drive from Colorado to Austin, it felt like that leap was without a parachute, but I’m certain I’ll find my footing.
And the free fall didn’t stop until I walked into the facility this morning and knew—deep in my bones—that I’d made the right choice.
Yeah, temporary will do just fine.
A slow smile curves my lips. My first place that Jared hasn’t touched. Hasn’t tainted. Hasn’t taken something from.
Excitement bubbles up and I hug myself with the thought that for the first time in several years, I can be whoever I want to be, and no one will know any different.
With a laugh that almost feels victorious, I grab my keys and head down to my car to retrieve the suitcase I’ve been living out of while waiting for this apartment to be ready.
The sun is low now, the heat still stifling, still clinging, but less oppressive in the early evening shadows.
I weave through two parked cars toward my older SUV, and that’s when I see him.
Of course, I do.
Lucas Hale leans against a truck a few spaces down.
His phone is pressed to his ear with one hand, and he’s spinning his car keys on his finger with his other.
He has one ankle crossed casually over the other like he hasn’t just spent the entire day putting his body through hell.
He’s out of his practice gear now, dressed in khaki shorts, and a fitted shirt with his sleeves revealing biceps that just aren’t fair.
Not that I notice.
He looks relaxed. At ease in a way he wasn’t earlier.
He looks up at the same time I do.
There it is again—that strange hitch in my chest. The reminder that this man has already seen me stripped of all composure and dignity.
“Hey.” He pockets his phone and straightens.
“I don’t usually take well to stalkers,” I tease.
“As most people don’t.” He chuckles, but there’s something about the way those blue eyes look at me, like he’s searching to make sure that I’m okay, that has my throat closing.
Uncertain of what to say or how to say it, I open the back of my car instead.
“Moving in?” he asks, lifting his chin toward me.
“Temporarily.”
He pushes off the truck—older but well taken care of—and bridges the space between us. “Need help?”
“I’ve got it,” I say automatically.
He doesn’t argue. He just takes it from my hands like it weighs nothing.
“Lucas—”
“Relax,” he says. “This has nothing on a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound lineman with a personal vendetta and a bonus tied to how many sacks he can make.”
I laugh. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
He arches a brow and makes a point of switching the suitcase from his right to his left arm. “Doc, if this is your idea of dangerous activity, I think we’re going to be just fine.”
“Mm-hmm. Keep telling yourself that,” I say as we walk through the complex gate together.
We move in comfortable silence down the tree-lined pathway, up the stairs toward the second-floor units, and then inside the very welcome, air-conditioned hallway.
I motion to the right when we come to a split in the hall, and he moves in front of me as the path narrows.
Staring at his back, it’s impossible to avoid the question I’ve wondered all day. Why did he help me last night?
Is the why really relevant though?
“This really isn’t necessary,” I say. “I’m sure you have a million other things to do considering I heard you just got to town too.”
He shrugs. “Not the first time I’ve shown up the first day of camp without everything figured out.” He pauses and looks. “Which door?”
“The last one on the right.”
“Huh,” he says with the lift of his brow as he sets my suitcase down in front of it but doesn’t let go of it.
“Can I ask you something?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He stills and then nods. “Should I be worried?” He chuckles. “Sure. Ask away, Doc.”
I hesitate. “Why did you help me?”
His shoulders hitch once the subject we’ve been politely dancing around is out in the open. He doesn’t answer right away though. Instead, he emits a slow, steady exhale like he knows his answer matters.
“I may have a reputation for not giving a fuck,” he finally says. “But if I see something wrong, I fix it.” His jaw tightens as my stomach churns. “Last night wasn’t . . . right. And you clearly weren’t okay.”
A dozen questions fill my head. Was I that incoherent? Do you think I really would have gone with the man? How did—
“I was worried for your safety,” he adds.
The words land way heavier than they should.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
He nods like those two words don’t need to be said.
“I’ve spent all day wondering what if you hadn’t stepped in. What would have happened. Not exactly an easy thing to process while trying to start a new job and not vomit in the process.”
“For what it’s worth, you pulled it off,” he says and then continues, “I didn’t know you were a doctor. It made me feel a little stupid that I offered you my googled medical advice.”
“Well, at least you didn’t empty your guts in front of a total stranger who then becomes someone you have to work with,” I say. “I win in the feeling stupid department.”
“Not your fault.”
“I know, but . . . thank you for not saying anything today.”
“No need to thank me.”
“I can take it from here. You really don’t have to—”
“I’ve got it. I’ll carry it in for you.”
I fumble with the key, push open the door, and step aside as he carries in the suitcase.
“You can put it anywhere,” I say.
He sets the suitcase down beside the boxes and glances around. “These places don’t have much imagination, do they?” he asks, glancing at the bare walls. “They’re all the same.”
“How would you know that?” I ask.
He grins. “Maybe because I’ve lived in about a dozen versions of this apartment over the years.” He shrugs. “Different cities. Same couch. Same white walls. Same generic everything.”
“I’m assuming I shouldn’t take offense to that.”
“No. Definitely don’t. Team digs are team digs—welcome when you need to use them but not where you want to stay permanently.”
“Brutal, but true.” I smile despite myself. “I might spruce mine up a bit.”
He takes a step toward the still open door. “Only if you do mine too.”
I blink. “Yours?”
He lifts his chin to the door across the hall from mine. “Hi, neighbor.”
“What are you—”
“My housing situation was a debacle,” he says quickly. “Don’t ask. Last-minute contract. Didn’t want to overthink it.”
“And you still took the chance.”
His smile softens. “I needed to be here.” Simple. Honest.
I nod, not wanting to push. Not yet.
“But between work and your doorstep, you might have a justifiable reason to get sick of me.”
“That’s a possibility,” I tease.
He flashes me a grin, one that’s warm and unmistakably charming. “Good night, neighbor.”
“Good night,” I say seconds before he closes the door across from mine, the soft click echoing across the hallway.
I stand there longer than necessary.
“I may have a reputation for not giving a fuck, but if I see something wrong, I fix it. Last night wasn’t . . . right. And you clearly weren’t okay.”
Despite his arrogance, I have a feeling that Lucas Hale is a good man. He stepped in where a bar full of others didn’t.
“I was worried about your safety.”
Temporary housing.
As I lock my door and lean back against it, a quiet thought settles in. I feel a little safer knowing he’s there.