Chapter 14
SAM
It's nine and I'm half-dragging, half-supporting a six-foot-four mountain of stubborn male athlete toward the pond house. Eli insists he "can manage" getting out of the car, but the moment his feet hit the gravel, his body sways like a drunk giraffe on an ice rink.
I fight back the smuggest grin in human history.
Oh, look who needs help after all, Mr. I-Can-Do-Everything-Myself.
The universe delivers justice in the most satisfying ways sometimes, even if that justice comes with the challenge of keeping both of us vertical.
"I said I've got it," he mumbles, even as his weight shifts precariously.
"Sure you do," I reply, wedging myself under his arm before he can protest. "And I'm secretly a retired circus performer specializing in human-pyramid foundation work. Just shut up and lean."
His arm reluctantly drapes over my shoulder, and sweet baby Jesus on a pogo stick, the man is solid. It's like trying to support a refrigerator with feelings. A very warm, very nice-smelling refrigerator.
Focus, Sam! The man has a concussion, not an invitation for you to catalog his physical attributes.
Each step toward the house is an exercise in physics—his bulk threatening to send us both sprawling across the lawn, my five-foot-nothing frame somehow counterbalancing through sheer determination and what I can only assume is temporary superhuman strength.
"You really don't have to—"
"If you say 'You don't have to do this' one more time," I grunt through clenched teeth, "I'm dropping you face-first into that bush. Doctor's orders be damned."
He falls silent, which I count as a victory as we finally reach the front door. I fish the keys from my pocket—an acrobatic feat considering I'm also preventing two-hundred pounds of athletic stubbornness from kissing the doormat.
The door swings open, and I navigate us through the entryway with all the grace of a shopping cart with one busted wheel. The living room sofa beckons like a promised land, and I steer us toward it with single-minded focus.
"Easy," I mutter as he sinks onto the cushions. "Water?" I ask, already moving toward the kitchen.
"I don't need—"
"That wasn't actually a question," I call over my shoulder. I return with a glass of water and thrust it at him like I'm serving papers to a reluctant defendant. "Drink. Dehydration makes concussions worse."
He accepts the water with a barely audible "thanks" and takes a few sips.
"Are you hungry? I can make something."
"No," he says firmly. "Don't bother with anything. I'm not an invalid."
I raise an eyebrow so high it nearly disappears into my hairline. "Says the man who nearly face-planted getting out of the car."
"That was momentary. I'm fine now." He sets the glass down with more force than necessary. "If I need anything, I'll get it myself. All I need from you is to wake me up every few hours as the doctor instructed."
Oh my God, is there an award for Most Insufferable Patient? Because we have a clear winner.
I'm physically restraining my eyeballs from rolling back into my skull.
"We should set some ground rules," he continues, his voice taking on that captain-of-the-team tone that probably works wonders on the ice rink but makes me want to throw the water glass at his perfectly symmetrical head.
"Ground rules?" I repeat, crossing my arms.
Eli shifts on the sofa, wincing slightly. "Yes, ground rules." His voice drops into that authoritative tone. "Since we're temporarily sharing this space, there needs to be clear boundaries." He looks me directly in the eyes, his expression dead serious. "My bedroom is off-limits. Under no circumstances are you to enter it. I value my privacy."
Is he serious?
Does he think I'm going to snoop through his underwear drawer the moment he closes his eyes?
"Then how am I supposed to wake you up every few hours?" I ask, spreading my hands wide. "Should I stand in the hallway and play the tuba? Send in a carrier pigeon? It defeats the entire purpose of having someone look after you."
"I didn't ask to be looked after," he says coolly. "But since you're here—" He pauses, like the words pain him. "I'm willing to compromise."
My eyebrow arches.
"For the time being," he continues, "I'll make use of this sofa as my temporary bed. You can use your brother's room to sleep in."
He's about to launch into what I'm sure is another thrilling regulation when I cut him off with a raised hand.
"You sound incredibly ungrateful for someone who should be thanking me right now." I say, heat rising in my cheeks. "Did you think I want to do this?"
He looks at me pointedly, one eyebrow raised in silent challenge. "You don't?"
"No," I snap, and his head jerks back slightly like I've slapped him. "Of course I don't."
Liar, liar, pants catastrophically on fire.
My answer catches him off guard.
"After what happened a few nights ago," I continue, gaining momentum, "you expect me to happily take care of you when you haven't even apologized for being mean to me and accusing me of something I didn't do?"
I cross my arms tightly, as if physically holding in all the feelings threatening to spill out.
"My brother asked me this favor, so I'm only here because I can't say no to him. And I'm also doing this for the team."
"The team?" he asks, confusion creasing his forehead.
"Yeah. I'm sure all your teammates are worried about you right now, and they need someone trustworthy to take care of their captain—which is me, by the way." I'm on a roll now, words tumbling out faster than my brain can censor them. "Or else they won't be able to concentrate on the game tomorrow. So before you start laying down ground rules like I'm here with secret agenda, you might want to apologize to me first. That is, if your pride lets you do that."
Of course it's a lie.
Of course there is nowhere else I would rather be than right here—making sure he's okay, breathing, upright, conscious, and not doing anything stupid like trying to prove his toughness to the furniture.
If there were an Olympic sport for voluntarily abandoning self-respect to babysit the man who keeps breaking your heart, I'd already be standing on the podium, waving to the crowd, pretending this was all part of the plan.
But I don't want him thinking I have some kind of hidden agenda.
Which is hilarious. Truly.
Because I absolutely do.
I mean—how often does the universe hand you a situation where the man you're catastrophically in love with is concussed, and you get to live under the same roof as him to take care of him without anyone hovering, or interrupting the moment? Never. That's how often. This is fate tripping over itself to give me a chance.
Two days.
Forty-eight glorious hours.
Just me. Him. This one big house.
I've fantasized about being alone with Eli before—fine, many times—but given how he usually goes the extra mile to avoid me like I'm a highly contagious emotional virus, this feels like a blessing in disguise.
Now I get to spend time with him without him running far, far away. I get to be attentive without being clingy. Supportive without screaming PLEASE FALL IN LOVE WITH ME directly into his stupid, handsome face.
I get to show him that I'm responsible. Compassionate. Capable. The kind of woman who could—hypothetically—be an excellent partner if you would just OPEN YOUR EYES, ELIJAH.
And if—if—that doesn't work? Well.
I'm not above showing him all my seductive prowess while I tend to him... I'm sure I have some, right?
In any case, this is my chance—one big, once-in-a-lifetime chance—to reenact every forced-proximity trope I've ever devoured at dawn, where two people are trapped together, emotions sneak up on them, caretaking turns into lingering looks, lingering looks turn into something electric, and the emotionally unavailable male lead finally realizes he's been in love the whole time because the universe literally had to knock him on the head to make it happen.
But I'll eat my own shoe before I admit any of that right now.
I tilt my chin up, a direct challenge in my gaze. His eyes—those unfairly beautiful eyes—widen slightly, and for a moment I think he might actually say something meaningful. Instead, he opens his mouth and closes it again, looking like a very handsome, very concussed fish.
Good. Let him stew in that for a while.
I turn away from him and march toward my brother's room to pick up some pillows and blanket that he can use, leaving him in the living room dumbfounded. My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised it doesn't echo through the hallway.
I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor.
What am I doing? What am I DOING?
I'm supposed to be avoiding Eli.
I'm supposed to make him crawl to me and ask for forgiveness. Fine, crawling is probably too much to expect, but I'm supposed to line up my pride and not give in to the temptation of seeing him before he initiates an apology.
But that plan went straight to the trash the moment I found out Eli was taken to the hospital for a minor concussion.
So yeah, fuck pride.
It's not as important as Eli. Taking care of him takes precedent.
You can call me pathetic, a doormat, or whatever, but when someone you care about is hurt, you show up. Even if they were a total jerk to you three days ago. Even if they accused you of something you didn't do.
I bang my head gently against the door. Samantha Westbrook, Doormat Extraordinaire. Official team caretaker and unofficial president of the Hopeless Pining Club.
I pull out my phone and text my brother to let him know that we've arrived at the Pond safely.
I then toss my phone onto the bed and run my hands through my hair. This is going to be a long night. Every few hours, I'll have to go wake up Mr. Ground Rules, ask him the orientation questions the doctor gave us, and probably get a lecture about personal boundaries.
I sigh, rummage through my brother's drawer, and pull out a hoodie and pajama pants. When I slip them on, the fabric swallows me whole—I could fit another person in here with room to spare.
When I finally come downstairs, pillow tucked under one arm and a quilt folded over the other, I stop short at the sight of him.
Eli's already stretched out on the sofa. Sleeping.
The couch is massive—one of those absurdly oversized pieces that looks like it was custom-built for a professional hockey player who refuses to admit furniture has limits. Even then, he barely fits. One arm is flung up over his forehead, shielding his eyes, while his long legs spill over the armrest like an afterthought, socked feet dangling because apparently gravity also gave up trying to contain him.
I pause, instinctively slowing my steps, my body switching into quiet mode like this is some sacred space I might accidentally desecrate if I breathe too loudly.
Is it weird that I want to stand here and watch him breathe? Definitely weird. Top-tier creepy behavior, Sam.
I inch closer anyway, my sock-covered feet silent on the floor. The quilt bunches around my ankles, threatening to trip me with each step.
"Don't worry," I whisper to no one, "I'm a professional at not making noise."
As if to mock me, my pinky toe connects with the leg of the coffee table. I bite down on my lip to trap the curse that wants to escape.
Professional, my ass.
Thankfully, Eli sleeps on, oblivious to my toe's sacrifice.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm that somehow makes the entire room feel calmer. I've never had the chance to look at him like this—without his guard up, without him noticing and looking away. Without that tightness around his eyes that appears whenever we make eye contact for too long.
I set the pillow down on the coffee table and allow myself the luxury of simply looking at him.
I've seen him a thousand times—angry, distant, sarcastic, stubborn—but sleeping Eli feels like a secret I was never meant to witness.
God, he's beautiful.
Not just in that polished, magazine-cover way, but in the way that makes my stomach drop like I've just crested the peak of a roller coaster. His hair falls across his forehead in strands that seem deliberately placed by some cosmic stylist with a flair for the dramatic. His jaw, usually tense with unspoken words, is relaxed now, showing the clean, strong line that I've caught myself staring at more times than I care to admit.
And his lips. Christ.
Stop staring at his mouth like a weirdo, Sam.
But I can't help it. His lips are relaxed in sleep, no tension pulling them thin, no sharpness at the corners. Softer like this. Fuller. I stare longer than I mean to because suddenly I'm thinking about how they'd feel pressed against mine.
Just briefly. Tastefully.
In a very respectful, emotionally catastrophic way.
I imagine — absurdly — how they'd feel beneath my thumb, warm and pliant, and the thought hits so hard I feel heat crawl up my neck and bloom across my cheeks. I force eyes to look away but they flick back to them.
And my brain goes, What I wouldn't give just to get a taste of that dangerously unfair mouth.
Honestly, I'd probably have to sell my soul. Maybe my dignity. Possibly both.
My brain, traitor that it is, supplies another image of what that mouth could do to mine — and it's definitely not gentle or tentative. It'd be thorough and wild. Overwhelming. No restraint. No mercy. Just complete domination of my senses. I would not protest. I would simply cease to function.
What is wrong with me?
I realize, belatedly, that my mouth is slightly open and I'm suddenly unbearably thirsty. Parched. Like I just ran a marathon in my imagination and forgot to hydrate. It's ridiculous how my body goes haywire around him. Like, get it together, hormones.
I set the quilt down and grab the pillow from the coffee table. I should just slip it under his head like a normal person. But my fingers are already tingling at the thought of accidentally-on-purpose brushing against his hair.
"Here's the situation," I whisper to myself. "If I try to put this under his head, I'll definitely wake him up. And he needs sleep more than he needs proper neck support right now."
So I set the pillow back down on the coffee table.
I unfold the quilt, the flannel soft and familiar beneath my fingers. It's my favorite—the one that lives in my brother's room, the one I curl into whenever I sleep there. It smells like me, faintly lavender, comforting and personal.
Something about laying it over Eli feels oddly intimate, like I'm wrapping him in a piece of myself.
That's not weird at all, Sam. Next, why don't you clip a lock of his hair for your scrapbook?
I shake the thought away and carefully, oh so carefully, drape the quilt over his long body. It settles around him like a second skin, and just as I'm pulling back, satisfied with my handiwork, Eli shifts.
My breath catches. His eyebrows draw together, and he turns slightly toward the back of the couch. For one heart-stopping second, I think he's going to wake up and catch me hovering over him like some kind of bedding fairy. But his eyes remain closed.
He makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a groan, and my heart constricts at the pain evident even in his sleep.
The headache. It must still be plaguing him, chasing him even in his dream. His forehead is creased, his mouth now pressed into a tight line. Without thinking—and that's always been my problem, the not thinking before acting—I reach out.
My fingers find his hair first. It's softer than I imagined. I brush the strands back from his forehead with a touch so light it barely registers against my fingertips.
What are you doing? You're going to wake him up and then have to explain why you're petting him like a show dog.
But I don't stop.
My hand moves on its own accord, fingertips trailing from his hairline down to his temple, where I can see a vein pulsing faintly beneath his skin. I trace small, gentle circles there, the way my mother used to do when I had migraines as a kid.
The effect is almost immediate. The crease between his eyebrows softens, the tension in his jaw eases. I feel like a magician who's stumbled upon a spell that actually works. My fingers continue their path, following the sharp angle of his cheekbone, marveling at the contrast between the roughness of his evening stubble and the smoothness of his skin.
And then—oh. Oh.
Eli turns his face into my palm, pressing his cheek against my hand with a sigh that sounds like relief. Like my touch is something good, something he wants. The complete opposite of how he usually pulls away the second we get too close, like my touch is something he recoils from rather than something he could ever sink into.
My heart isn't fluttering anymore—it's pounding, a bass drum in my chest that I'm sure must be audible across state lines. I don't dare move. I don't dare breathe. This moment feels crystallized in amber, precious and fragile.
He's asleep, you absolute walnut. Don't read into this. People do all sorts of unconscious things they'd never do awake.
But the rational voice in my head can't compete with the warmth spreading through my chest. His face is pressed against my palm, his breath hot against my wrist, and I want to memorize every molecule of this moment.
Slowly, with movements that would make a sloth look hasty, I lower myself to the floor beside the couch. My knees protest but I ignore the discomfort. I find a halfway comfortable position, my back against the coffee table, my arm extended to maintain that miraculous contact with his face.
From this angle, I can see the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks, impossibly long and dark. I can count the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose like distant stars. I can see the small scar at his hairline that I've always wondered about but never asked.
This is pathetic, you know. Sitting on the floor, hand cramping, watching a man sleep. There are probably laws against this.
But I can't bring myself to care about dignity or laws or the pins and needles starting in my fingers. Because Eli's face is relaxed now, peaceful in a way I've never seen before. And somehow, impossibly, it's my touch that brought him that peace.
I shift slightly, trying to find a position I can maintain without my arm falling off. Eli murmurs something incoherent in his sleep, his lips moving against my palm in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
His hand—the one that was pressed to his forehead—moves in sleep to rest lightly on my wrist, as if holding me in place.
Time stretches and contracts around us.
I don't know how long I sit there, watching the subtle changes in his expression as he dreams, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing against my skin.
Long enough that my back aches and my legs threaten to cramp. Long enough that I've memorized the exact pattern of his stubble and the way his eyelids flutter during REM sleep.
"Sweet dreams, Eli," I whisper, so quietly that it's barely more than an exhale.
And I swear—though I'll never tell a soul—the corner of his mouth twitches upward, just for a second, like he heard me.
Like somewhere in his dreams, he's smiling back.
The next day, my neck cracks like a glow stick at a disappointing rave when I try to lift my head from its awkward perch on my shoulder.
My back protests with the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to do chores as I straighten up, blinking away the fog of too-little sleep. The living room comes into focus—and there's Eli, still asleep on the sofa, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm that I've been obsessively monitoring every two hours through the night like some deranged sleep detective.
The price of nobility is apparently spinal agony. Who knew? Oh wait, everyone who's ever slept in a chair instead of the cloud-like mattress waiting upstairs in Zach's room.
But I couldn't leave Eli alone, not with that concussion.
The doctor's instruction was very clear: wake concussion patients regularly to check for warning signs. So every two hours, I've been the villain in Eli's sleep story, poking him awake to ask thrilling questions like, "What's your name?" and "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Real riveting midnight conversation.
I stretch and something in my lower back pops so loudly I'm surprised it doesn't wake him. Thankfully, he hasn't shown any signs of his concussion worsening. No vomiting, no increased confusion, no pupils doing weird things that pupils shouldn't do. Just normal, healthy resentment at being woken up by the woman he absolutely doesn't want to be indebted to.
My phone says it's just past seven. Early, but not too early to start being productive. My first thought is food—something warm, something nourishing. Something that says "I'm still mad at you but I don't want you to die" in the universal language of home cooking.
Chicken soup it is.
I order the ingredients for delivery using an app, tipping generously because apparently, I'm the kind of person who believes in karma now.
While waiting, I take a quick shower, each hot water droplet a tiny merciful god massaging my aching muscles. By the time I'm dressed, the delivery has arrived, and I'm in the kitchen.
I've never thought of myself as particularly domestic, but there's something soothing about the rhythmic chop of the knife against the cutting board. Onions, carrots, celery—the holy trinity of soup bases according to a cooking show I watched once a long time ago. The chicken goes into the pot with water, salt, and a handful of herbs that smell like they could cure anything from a concussion to existential dread.
While the soup simmers, I find myself stealing glances at Eli's sleeping form. His face is softer in sleep, none of that sharp-edged defensiveness that he wears like designer armor when conscious.
It's annoying how beautiful he is, like God was showing off when He made him. "Look what I can do with cheekbones!" said the Almighty, and lo, Eli's face happened.
I'm stirring the pot (the soup, not the drama—though I excel at both) when I hear shuffling from the living room. Eli's awake, but I pretend not to notice, suddenly very interested in the perfect consistency of my broth. The soup needs another five minutes, which gives me time to set the table with the precision of someone who definitely does this kind of thing regularly and isn't just trying to impress a grumpy, concussed man.
I fill a pitcher with ice water, squeeze fresh oranges for juice (okay, I open a carton, but I do it with flair), and arrange Eli's medication next to what will be his bowl.
The pills form a small, colorful archipelago on the napkin—islands of relief in the sea of his probable headache.
Using a ladle that I found after opening every drawer in the kitchen, I pour the soup into two bowls, making sure to give each a generous portion of chicken.
I arrange everything on a tray and carry it to the dining table, setting it down with the pride of someone who hasn't burned the house down while cooking.
From the corner of my eye, I see Eli finally stir.
He sits up slowly, like his body is negotiating the terms of consciousness one limb at a time. His hair is a magnificent disaster, sticking up in tufts that defy both gravity and good sense. It should look ridiculous—it does look ridiculous—but somehow, he pulls it off like it's a deliberate style choice rather than the aftermath of sleep warfare.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling. It's completely unfair that he can wake up looking like that and still make my heart do interpretive dance.
Not that I'd ever admit it.
As far as he knows, I'm still firmly in the "you're dead to me" camp after his shower accusation fiasco.
When he turns toward me, I quickly rearrange my face into a mask of cool indifference, the emotional equivalent of "oh, were you here this whole time? I hadn't noticed."
"Come and eat breakfast so you can drink your medicine," I say, my voice impressively devoid of the butterflies currently setting up a mosh pit in my stomach.
He just stares at me, and for a moment I wonder if the concussion has affected his hearing.
"Don't worry," I add, "I didn't put any love potion in the food, so get in here and eat while it's still hot. It will help you feel better."
Eli clears his throat, the sound like sandpaper on wood. "I want to wash up first," he says, his voice morning-rough. "I didn't get to do it last night."
There's something different in his tone. The usual razored edge is missing, replaced by something almost... polite? The apocalypse must be nigh.
"Do you need help getting upstairs?" I ask, and immediately want to swallow the words back. It sounds too caring, too concerned.
He shakes his head.
"I can manage." No snark, no bite. Just a simple statement.
What alien entity has possessed Eli, and can it stay forever?
I watch him as he disappears up the stairs, my eyes definitely not lingering on the way his t-shirt clings to his shoulders. That would be ridiculous. And unprofessional. And I am nothing if not professional in my reluctant caretaking duties.
Half an hour later, we sit at the dining table, the steam from our soup bowls creating a fragrant fog between us. My first spoonful is a triumph—the broth rich and clear, the chicken tender, the vegetables soft but not mushy.
Silence stretches between us like chewing gum, getting thinner and more uncomfortable with each passing moment. I focus on my food, but I can feel Eli's gaze flicking toward me every few minutes, like he's working up the courage to speak. Each time I look up, he quickly redirects his attention to his bowl as if the secrets of the universe are floating in his broth.
After the fifth or sixth time this happens, I can't take it anymore. The tension is so thick I could cut it and serve it as an unfortunate appetizer.
I shoot him a sharp glare. "If you have something to say, say it. Hesitating doesn't suit you, Eli."
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like it's trying to escape the conversation. The silence stretches for so long I consider checking if time has actually stopped.
Then, abruptly he says, "I'm sorry."
The words hang in the air, and I can't help the surprised gasp that escapes me. Elijah Deveraux, apologizing? To me? I should check the window to see if pigs are doing aerial acrobatics out there.
"I'm sorry for how I acted last night. When I should've been grateful that you were there for me—when you weren't obligated to be. At all." He continues, his words picking up speed like they're afraid he'll change his mind mid-sentence.
I open my mouth to respond, but he barrels on.
"And I'm sorry for being an ass a few nights ago, accusing you of... trying to sneak up on me while I was in the shower. For accusing you of taking photos of me. For everything I said that crossed a line." His gaze drops to his soup, as if he's seeking liquid courage.
"That night was just... a lot," he admits. "I was overwhelmed. I was angry. And I wasn't in the right headspace. And I know it's not a valid excuse to act like a piece of shit... so I'm really, really sorry."
He takes a breath, then looks back up at me.
"I also promised your brother I'd do right by you," he adds, a little rueful. "And he'd never let me hear the end of it if I didn't." His mouth twitches faintly. "So... I hope you can forgive me."
His face is the approximate shade of a fire hydrant, the redness spreading up from his neck to his cheeks in a tide of embarrassment. I can practically see what it costs him to swallow his pride like this, each word a jagged pill going down his throat.
Wow. Really wow. I'm speechless, and that's not a condition I experience often. My heart is performing a full rhythmic gymnastics routine, complete with ribbon twirls and those inexplicable hoop things.
I really want to leap from my chair, vault across the table, and wrap him in a hug so tight his ribs would send me a cease and desist letter.
But I can't look too eager.
Even though I am. Even though my eagerness could power a small city if they could hook it up to the grid.
Instead, I quietly clean my bowl with the last piece of chicken, stand up, and look at him with what I hope is dignified restraint rather than barely contained giddiness.
"I appreciate the apology," I say, my voice steady despite the parade happening in my chest. "I'm sure it wasn't easy for you to do."
I pause, weighing my next words. "But even though I appreciate that you're owning your mistake, I'm not convinced you actually deserve forgiveness yet. You didn't just hurt my feelings, Eli. You drop-kicked them off a cliff and watched them bounce."
I turn and start walking toward the kitchen, my back to him, allowing myself a tiny smile that he can't see.
"I know..." His voice stops me. "And I understand that. But I really don't like owing anyone, so please tell me, what I have to do to make it right. I'll do anything."
A slow, wide grin spreads across my face, the kind that would make a shark reconsider its life choices. I quickly banish it before turning to face him, one eyebrow arched with practiced precision.
"Are you absolutely sure you want to use the word anything?" I ask sweetly. "You should be careful with promises like that."
He pulls a grimace, like he's already regretting the blank check he's written with his offer. But then he squares his shoulders. "Yeah, so long as you don't ask me to be your boyfriend."
I roll my eyes. "Duh, of course I know that."
I pretend to think, tapping my finger against my chin like I'm considering which of my many evil plans to implement first. "I'll forgive you in exchange for three favors, favors you can never say no to."
"How about one favor?" he counters.
"Three."
"Two?" He's negotiating like we're at a forgiveness bazaar.
"You have no right to negotiate, Eli. You're the one asking for my forgiveness."
He sighs. "Three is a lot."
"Then I won't forgive you," I say lightly. "It's not like it'll change anything between us anyway."
I turn away, counting silently in my head. I don't even reach two before I hear the chair shriek against the floor as he stands up.
"Fine, three favors," he blurts. "Just... please don't ask for anything weird."
I fight back a giggle, my insides fizzing like a shaken soda. Victory tastes sweeter than I imagined, and I haven't even decided what my three favors will be yet. The possibilities are dizzyingly delightful.
When I face him again, my expression is composed, though I'm doing internal cartwheels. I extend my hand to him, formal as a business transaction.
"Then you have a deal," I say. "And don't worry, I won't make you do anything weird."
The look of wary relief on his face almost makes me laugh. Little does he know that my definition of "weird" is very, very flexible.
His hand clasps mine and the handshake seals our pact. Three favors. Three opportunities. Three chances to make Elijah Deveraux fall in love with me. I can hardly wait.