24. Gwen
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
GWEN
The light snap of the front door shutting startles me from sleep. It’s not loud enough to be disruptive, but my body fires awake all the same. I sit straight up, heart pounding, and listen carefully.
A thud. Followed by footsteps.
I reach for my phone, knowing that I set the alarm system just like Bash showed me to when I first moved in. It says it was disarmed one minute ago, which can only mean one thing.
I tiptoe down the hallway and make my way to the stairs, taking them quietly just in case it isn’t Bash and I’m walking straight into my murderer’s trap.
But once I turn the corner and peek into the darkened kitchen, I see a frame I’d recognize anywhere.
Bash has his palms propped on the countertop and his head dropped like he’s catching his breath. He hasn’t even taken his boots off—something out of character because this man keeps a meticulous house.
“Bash?” I ask carefully.
He doesn’t lift his head. The only sign he hears me is the tensing of his broad shoulders.
“I didn’t know you were coming home.”
Now his shoulders drop, but he still doesn’t respond.
“You okay?” I ask, moving closer to him. Reaching for him. Letting my hand trail over the curve of his upper spine. “What’s wrong?”
I can just tell. Sure, usually he’s surly and ornery, but this is different.
“Just really not feeling well.”
My forehead scrunches, mind running through all the things that could be wrong so soon after donating an organ. “How’s your abdomen? Should we go to the hospital? I knew it was too soon?—”
“The surgery was laparoscopic, Gwen. I’m fine. I have a really bad headache, and I feel nauseous. I’m just tired.”
My fingers press into the divots between his vertebrae, working their way down until I hear him sigh.
“I’m really, really tired.” He shakes his head almost sadly. “Like exhausted. Gwen, I’m just so tired.” His voice cracks, and it does nothing to convince me that he’s okay.
“That’s okay. You just have to honor that. You’re allowed to be tired. It’s normal to be tired.”
He nods this time but makes no other motions.
“Here.” I reach down, sliding my hand over his, linking our fingers. “Come on. Let’s go. You need to rest.”
He turns now, dangerously dark eyes peering into mine from over his shoulder. They look tortured. He does look tired. And downtrodden and…sad.
“You got this,” I say softly, not sure what’s wrong, only knowing that I would do anything to make him feel better.
“I don’t know if I do,” he says back, voice rough like gravel. It makes my chest ache.
“I’ve got you, then,” I murmur, giving him a tug as I turn away to lead him upstairs.
I expect him to resist. But he doesn’t.
He follows.
The fact that he still doesn’t remove his boots sets me on edge. I may not know him all that well, but I know he would never walk through his beautiful home—across these meticulously finished hardwoods—with a pair of work boots on.
I stop and turn to him. “Sit,” I say, pointing at the stairs.
He looks stunned, but he complies and drops to a step stiffly.
I swallow the lump in my throat before coming to kneel before him.
Silently, I lift his foot and unlace the leather boot.
I can feel him watching me, but he doesn’t speak.
My palm squeezes his ankle as I set the boot aside and move on to the next one, one hand massaging rhythmically at his muscled calf while my fingers deftly weave through the tight laces.
With both boots set neatly on the mat, I reset the alarm and take him by the hand again, urging him to stand.
We walk up the stairs, hand in hand, and straight to his bedroom. I lead him over to the bed and give him a gentle push, forcing him to sit while I click on the bedside lamp before turning to study him more closely.
Dark smudges beneath his eyes make them appear even darker than they already are. The shadow of his stubble makes his cheeks look just a little extra hollow. Even his hair doesn’t look as perfectly gelled as usual. In fact, it appears entirely unbrushed.
Without thinking, I reach up and cup the side of his face. His eyes flutter shut, and his Adam’s apple bobs. Softly, I let my fingers trail over the ridge of his cheekbone, before fluttering over his temple, and then trailing behind his ear.
“Have you been sleeping?”
He opens his eyes. “Not much” is his gruff response. “It just hasn’t come to me. Probably sick.”
This big strong man who shows up for everyone around him, who always does the right thing, looks beaten down, and I can’t handle it.
I give him a firm nod and squeeze his calloused hand as I take in the room around me.
The expansive bed with crisp, white sheets.
The mountain-scape art on the walls. The plush chair in the corner, tucked beside a standing lamp with built-in bookshelves surrounding it.
The perfect spot to curl up with a book.
“I’ll be right back.”
I move to leave, but his hand squeezes mine harder, a silent plea for me to stay. “Hey.” I squeeze back, bending at the hips to try and meet his gaze. “You change and get into bed. I’m coming right back.”
His responding nod is stiff as his fingers slowly go slack. It has me peeking back over my shoulder at him curiously as I walk away. The sight of him looking so small and defeated on the edge of his bed twists my heart. I get the sense that he needs me right now, so I make haste.
I leave the room and head to mine, searching for any tools I can think of that will help him relax. Because I don’t think Bash is sick—I think Bash is burned out.
When I get back to his room, he’s under the covers, flat on his back, hands laid over his stomach, almost like a corpse, while he stares up at the ceiling.
I swallow down my anxiety at seeing him like this, looking so detached. It makes me wonder what he saw while he was away that pushed him to this point.
Quietly, I set up my Bluetooth speaker and turn on my favorite calming playlist—Tibetan singing bowls.
“Gwen,” he sighs my name like it means something. Like he knows he should tell me to stop but can’t bring himself to.
“Bash,” I reply, my way of telling him to back off about it and let me take care of him. Because someone needs to.
I draw the heavy curtains before padding back toward him. His eyes follow me, but every other part of him is still.
My knees bump against the edge of his mattress on the opposite side of the bed as I hold up my glass vial of lavender oil. It’s clear, and the actual sprigs are suspended within. “I’m going to kneel on your bed and rub this into your temples. Please try not to get a boner.”
The laugh he coughs out is sudden, and genuine, and something of a relief. “Okay, Gwen. If that makes you feel better.”
With a soft smile, I crawl onto his bed. “Yes, I’m doing all this to make me feel better.”
His lips are upturned when he closes his eyes, and it strikes me that Bash has never let his guard down around me like this. Actually, I don’t think Bash lets his guard down around anyone at all.
He’s been hurt .
Clyde’s words echo in my head as I realize it’s more than that. I’ve been hurt. But this? Bash is actively hurting. It’s different, and I hate it.
I draw close enough that my knees press against his arm. Then I squeeze a few drops of the oil onto my fingertips, I rub them together to heat it before tentatively reaching over him and gently pressing my pointer and middle fingers onto each of his temples.
He tenses at first, but then he softens. I work in gentle circles, slowing slightly with each rotation, as though I might unfurl the tension within him with my fingertips alone.
“You’ve had a big year, Bash,” I say softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”
His cheek hitches. “Not really.”
“Yes, really. You’ve endured intense emotional upheaval. Tripp. Your ex. A major surgery.” I’m quiet for a few beats, the other thing that has caused him strife at the tip of my tongue.
“Me,” I finally say.
His eyes snap open, landing on mine as I continue to massage him.
“You’re crashing. Your nervous system has got to be in overdrive.
And yes, your incision may be healed, and physically you might feel fine, but those six weeks they recommend might be accounting for more than that.
How is your mental health? How is your emotional health?
Stress is often the spark for starting illness. ”
He watches me, lids slung low. He says nothing, so I carry on.
“If I were you, I don’t think I’d be okay. You need to take care of yourself, not just everyone else. Or it will come back to haunt you.”
“I know,” he whispers, eyes drawing shut once more, like he’s just too tired to even keep them open.
“Does this feel okay?” I ask, not wanting to carry on gently scolding him.
“Yes.”
I pause for a moment, adding more oil before moving away from his temples, letting my fingers pulse softly on the lymph nodes in his neck.
“You’re good at this,” he murmurs, dropping a hand on my thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world to just casually touch each other.
I clear my throat, trying not to fixate on the contact.
“Thank you. Clyde likes it as well.” I can’t even mention the older man without smiling.
I never imagined my relationship with him would bring me such fulfillment.
It feels serendipitous that he strolled into the yoga studio that day.
“He’s doing better, you know. I think he’ll be good to go around the timeline we agreed upon and if his occupational therapist agrees. ”
Bash hums deeply as I touch him. “That’s good. What about you, though?”
My tongue darts out over my lips, a burst of nervousness tightening my chest. “I accepted a job at a resort in Costa Rica, so I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Figure I’ll go a little early and spend some time traveling to other parts of the country. I’ll be due for a new adventure anyway.”