Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
This is the first time I’ve gone to this part of the penthouse. When I reach a set of double doors, I think: This must be it. His bedroom. The master.
My heart rate is intense when I knock. He doesn’t answer. I try again, but no answer.
Shifting back and forth on my feet, Sistine’s concussion warning rings in my ears.
What if he’s confused, disoriented, or fainted on the other side?
There’s only the two of us here, so whatever the case, it’s my moral duty to make sure Luke is okay.
With great determination, I turn the doorknob, half expecting it to be locked, already brainstorming battering ram solutions to break in.
The force of my momentum flings me inside enough to tumble forward a few steps. I raise my head and go motionless.
Luke is in the middle of pulling up sweatpants over his hips.
With his body angled away, I avoid most of his front nakedness but catch enough of a glimpse for it to sear into my memory.
I gulp. There was a line. A very strong line being tucked into place before being covered by cotton.
If polite manners are to be observed, I should shut my eyes or try sneaking out of the room before he notices I am here.
It’s bad enough his upper half is naked and wet enough to have just come out of the shower.
But I can’t make myself move, and I can’t stop looking. My throat is dry and my heart is hammering away .
It was already a guarantee based on the fit of his suits that Luke’s musculature would be exquisite, but seeing the specific details is killing me: wide shoulders, strong back, dimples above a fit bum that stretch out his lounge pants, and thighs comparable to Greek God sculptures.
He turns around.
I gasp.
“What a—” begins Luke as I squeak out, “Sorry?—”
We are both shocked, quiet. If he expects me to speak first, he needs to put on a shirt. He needs to hide his chest and the striking line of hair arrowing down his abs, disappearing into the waist of his pants. I’m finding it hard to breathe through this, let alone talk.
Or at least it feels that way. In reality, I’m breathing rather deeply as if flirting with hyperventilation itself, the effect causing my breasts to strain a generously low neckline. I’m still wearing my sparkly blue dress and it is very tight and not designed for vigorous lung expansion.
“What are you doing here?” Luke finally manages out.
“To check. I’m—here to do that. But I didn’t see anything.”
“What are you checking?”
“You’ve been in a fight, so you.”
My fault , I silently remember with not a low amount of guilt.
I hold up the ice pack I’ve brought along.
“Cold compression therapy helps stimulate blood flow, speeds up recovery time, reduces swelling, and helps numb the affected area. Your mouth.” Gingerly, I move closer.
“And there are bruises already forming in other places. I can see.”
“I’ll take the ice.” He holds out his hand.
When I get close enough to pass it to him, I notice his knuckles. They are battered and look painful. More guilt slams into me.
“There is not enough ice,” I exclaim. “You’ll need much more!”
Giving him the single pack, I turn on my heel to grab the rest of the packs from the kitchen freezer.
“You should rest,” says Luke, when I come back with more in my arms.
“Sit down.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Not easily. And it’s better to get them on as many areas as we can. The earlier, the better.” I kind of corral him toward the bed until he finally concedes and sits down on the edge. “Hands first.”
He holds them out. Very gently I put two packs over his knuckles, barely skimming over the skin so the chill is not a shock to his system.
“Don’t give me that face,” he says.
“Which one?”
“The sad one.”
“I’m not sad,” I tell him. “I’m profoundly sad.”
“So I shouldn’t have come after you hung up on me?”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” Does he not realize everything he’s done?
“I was—surprised when I saw you. I didn’t know what kind of situation it was going to turn into.
Rather like a movie or some crime show in retrospect.
Not something that is supposed to happen in real life.
Rather scary, if I’m being honest. So when you showed up it was very—relieving, to say the least. Thank you.
I don’t think I’ve said that yet. And when they tried to make you stay, and you saw—me—the knife—I…
Well, I didn’t know you could fight like that. ”
“Next time, skip the part where you don’t tell me what is going on. Let me handle it.”
I take the ice off his hands, letting them have a break. Then I raise a smaller pack to his mouth, not meeting his eyes. “Considering I’m never going to another mysterious rich person party again, you won’t have to worry about that.”
“It doesn’t have to be an exact scenario, Rita. Call me whenever you need to.”
Does he hear what he is saying? “That’s—silly.”
“How so?”
“I’m frequently uncomfortable, so if I do that, you’ll be wasting your time.”
“I’ve got the resources to waste my time.”
He’s lying. I know how busy he always is. “Always have the helicopter on standby, do you?”
“For someone like you who has a propensity to get herself into trouble, yes. I’ll have to.”
The ice pack moves to a spot on his shoulder. “It feels too early to joke about this.”
“Who says I’m joking?” His voice is gruff. “When you call me, I will come.”
My heart clenches at his Big Promise. The kind you make to a person who is of utmost importance in your life.
To always come? That’s not a casual guarantee.
It means wherever and whatever you are doing, when that person calls, they skyrocket to first priority.
He can’t mean it in that sense. Luke Abbot has other things on his plate.
I think back to when I brought soup to his office and decide he must be concussed to be saying these things right now.
Standing to get better leverage, I reach down to hold an ice pack against his left side.
“You’re still in your dress,” he says abruptly. “You should change out if it.”
“After.”
“Now.”
“Don’t rush me. There are more bruises that are going to form on your back that I still need to attend to.” I move faster, quickly shifting to the ice pack to his left side. If I can at least get one round of compression everywhere he’s hurt, it will help, and then?—
“Rita.” He’s never used that tone on me. It’s guttural enough to make me stop. “Change into something else.”
My eyebrows draw together. “Why are you so?—”
I look down at the position I’ve put myself in, standing and bending over him. My eyes widen. It’s—my breasts—they are very voluminously pushing out. A little tug downwards and they’d basically pop out.
My cheeks blaze at the visual.
Luke is reacting to that. Because he is my boss and I am his employee. This pose violates so many lines, considering I am inches away from smothering him with my cleavage.
I try adjusting the neckline to pull it up higher.
“Stop.” What a threadbare command from him. “It’s—I can’t handle—this,” Luke continues. “It. Not when you look like?—”
“It’s unprofessional, I know . Sorry!”
I stop fiddling because it’s causing more jiggling than anything, and step away from him, for his expression has gone half feral. He must be pissed. “I’ll change, and then I’ll come back and check in on you.”
“Don’t. I’ll be sleeping.” He rubs his hands roughly over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. “I’ve been up…” He pauses as if mentally calculating it. “…for forty-eight hours straight. I’m buggered.”
“The adrenaline has left your body.”
“It appears so.”
“I think it’s okay to lie down. You can rest. I’ll watch over you.”
“Go sleep in your own room, Rita.”
He lies down, eyes already closed, as if doing so will encourage me to get out. I debate watching him until he actually does fall asleep, but I feel strange about it, so I leave, shutting the door behind me. I don’t get far when I hear it. His aggravated groan.
He really didn’t want me in there.
Feeling listless, I meander around the apartment before finally going into my own room. A part of me thinks I’m still in shock as I shower, dry off, and change into my oversized cozy pajamas. Then I lie down and try to sleep.
It doesn’t work. I can’t rest.
Half an hour later, nothing has changed.
I toss and turn, but there is no escaping the worry clawing at me. What if he’s actually concussed? Sure, he kicked me out of his room, but I’ve temporarily taken on the mantle of being his doctor tonight, so that gives me certain rights.
Like sneaking back into his room rights.
He’s left the door unlocked again, and it isn’t strange if I slide an armchair over to his side of the bed and watch him breathe for a while. One would call it a focused wellness check.
My eyes trace over his face. Even resting, his features are roguish and gorgeous—though leaning more to roguish right now.
It’s the bruised mouth. It looks worse now, and that fact has me huddling into the armchair.
It’s inside me. Living. Breathing. The guilt.
I shouldn’t have put myself in such a vulnerable situation tonight, one where he had to come save me. Where he got hurt saving me.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
My words are swallowed by the dark. There is no answer, no forgiveness.
Only exhaustion.
Sometime later, I’m stirred awake because I’m in motion.
My arms automatically grasp tighter, fists seeking out and bunching into anchor points.
Soft blonde hair. My nose burrows into a neck.
It’s Luke. He mumbles something as he carries me in his arms. I’m settled back into a familiar bed, tucked into a familiar comforter.
My own room. Lips brush over my forehead. Then it goes black again for a while .
The next time I wake up, it is three in the morning and still dark. My heart is pounding, and it takes a while for the events of last night to run through my head. I sit up. “Luke.”