Chapter 12 #2
As I head up the stairs that lead to the third floor, my thoughts work around to something else surprising.
Calling Yara my girlfriend.
At first, it slipped out in the heat of the moment. I didn’t even think about it. I was just so fucking angry at Kellogg, and he was hurting Yara—
My hands tighten into fists.
The anxiety that receded slightly between the gym and here comes surging forward again.
Calm down, I remind myself sternly. Getting all worked up isn’t going to help anything. It sure as fuck won’t turn back the clock so Yara never got hurt. It won’t make her feel safe if I come storming into the apartment with a scowl on my face.
I take several deep breaths and exhale them slowly, breathing from my diaphragm. I unclench my fingers. I roll my neck and shake out my shoulders.
Then I continue on my way, taking the last steps two at a time. The closer I get to Yara, the more my anticipation builds. Not just because I want visual verification that she’s okay, although I do—the photo she sent was nice, but not the same as seeing her in person—but because I miss her.
A quick laugh slips out, incongruous to my earlier mood. Just like the T-shirts, I never would have imagined missing a woman after being away from her for less than two hours. But here I am, eagerly rushing to her like we’ve been apart for weeks or months instead.
But I never had a woman I cared about this much before, aside from family. I’ve dated, of course, but there was always a reason to keep things casual—the demands and dangers of my job, for one, and the simple fact that I never found anyone who interested me enough to want a commitment.
Now?
I called Yara my girlfriend, and I like the sound of it.
As I approach my front door, my thoughts shift to plans for the rest of the day. It’s a weekday, so normally I’d be downstairs in one of the offices, working. But with Yara here, and still recovering, no less, the team reallocated some of my responsibilities so I can be around for her.
“It’s no different from when Indy was sticking close to Bea,” Rafe explained when we discussed it at the hospital. “Or after Noelle was rescued, and Webb took time off to be with her.”
“He’s right,” Indy chimed in. “I’m sure she’ll feel better, having you around. I don’t mind picking up some extra work. And I’m sure no one else does, either.”
Just as Indy predicted, Webb and Tyler were fine with it. Which means I’m effectively off for the rest of the week unless some sort of emergency comes up. I feel a little guilty about it, but at the end of the day, making sure Yara is okay is far more important.
I’ll make an early lunch first, I decide. Something with plenty of protein, complex carbs, and vitamins for healing. Then we’ll watch some TV, or maybe a movie, if there’s one Yara would like to see. After that, another nap, with her snuggled up against me.
With thoughts of Yara’s body tucked up against mine running through my mind, I unlock my door with a smile. Belatedly, I rap on the door in warning as I open it while calling out, “Hey, Tink. I’m home.”
But my smile fades when the view of my apartment isn’t what I’m expecting.
Instead of finding Yara on the couch, where I left her, she’s sitting at the dining room table, hunched over her laptop, typing away.
Her hands freeze above the keyboard—hands, as in plural, as in, she’s trying to type when she has three freaking broken fingers—as she looks up at me. “Ace. How was your workout?”
“What are you doing?” It comes out rougher than I intended. But, shit. Why is she working on her laptop instead of resting? Why is she typing when she has three broken fingers?
“I’m working,” Yara replies calmly. “Even though I’m technically off work this week, I still have emails to go through, and we just beta-tested the newest version of our—”
“Are you typing?” I ask. “With your hand like that?”
“I’m trying.” She frowns. “It’s a little tough, trying to just use my two good fingers. But it’s still faster than doing it one-handed.”
Crossing the room in seconds, I close her laptop and slide it away from her. “You’re supposed to be resting, Yara. That’s what we decided when I left. You were going to stay on the couch and rest.”
“Ace.” There’s a hard note to her voice. She slides the laptop back towards her and opens it. “What do you think you’re doing? I was in the middle of writing an email.”
I push it away from her again. “And possibly injuring yourself in the process?”
“By typing?”
“Yes, by typing.” A distant part of my brain knows I’m overreacting. That Yara’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and she’s not exactly endangering herself by sitting at my dining table and sending a few emails.
But.
My gaze keeps moving between her splinted fingers, the bruises on her face, and the stark white bandage peeking out from her sleeve.
And those are only the injuries I can see from here.
I know that beneath her clothes, there are still more cuts and bruises hiding.
Cuts that could get infected. Bruises that hurt her whenever she moves.
Then I look into her eyes, shadowed with bluish smudges of fatigue. From the nightmares that wake her up throughout the night, and the hours of lying awake after, too afraid to go back to sleep.
She hasn’t told me that part, but I’d put money on it. After all, I’ve been through it myself. The resignation that happens around four AM, when you finally decide the lack of sleep is a better alternative to the nightmares.
“You need rest,” I insist stubbornly. “Not to be worrying about work. And your hand—” I take her injured hand carefully in mine. “You might think it’s fine, but you could hurt yourself without meaning to. And the stress. You don’t need more stress right now.”
Yara’s gaze narrows as she looks at me. “You mean the stress of you closing my laptop without asking? Trying to stop me from working? That kind of stress?”
“I’m just worried about you.” I explain. “I know you think you don’t need—”
She pulls her hand away. “You don’t know what I think. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because.” Her jaw sets. “You didn’t ask. You just came storming in here, closed my laptop, and pushed it away from me. How would you feel if I went into your office and did that to you?”
As my irrational worry fades, regret replaces it. And along with it, the realization that I fucked up again.
Sinking into the chair beside her, I release a heavy sigh before saying, “You’re right. That was shitty of me.”
“And bossy,” Yara adds. “And a little paternalistic.”
Eeesh.
Shitty, bossy, and paternalistic. That’s definitely not how I want her to see me.
But she’s right.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, meaning it. “I guess… I was worried about you already. And then when I came in and saw you working, I just…”
The corner of Yara’s mouth twitches. “Freaked out?”
“I didn’t freak out. I just… overreacted.”
One eyebrow arches up. “I’d say so.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Really. I didn’t have the right to do that. It was rude and bossy. And you have every right to be mad at me.”
Yara’s quiet for a moment as she looks at me. Then she moves her chair closer to mine. “I’m not mad. Annoyed, yes. But you’d have to be bossier than that to really make me mad.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Well, I’ll try really hard not to do that again. So you won’t have to be annoyed or mad at me.”
She regards me thoughtfully before replying, “I get it, Ace. Why you worry. If the positions were flipped, I’d worry about you, too.”
Relief floods through me. “You’d worry about me?”
Her elbow nudges my side. “Of course, Ace. I care about you.” A beat passes, and then, “I’d probably get a little bossy if I thought you were pushing yourself too hard. Not that I was, just sitting here, typing on my laptop, but if you were doing something stupid—”
“Hey.” I give her a mock-hurt look. “I wouldn’t do something stupid.”
“No, you probably wouldn’t,” she concedes. “But if you went off on some job while you were all injured, I’d worry. And I’d probably try to stop you.”
“You’d stop me? How?”
“I don’t know.” Yara purses her lips. “Convince you at first. If that didn’t work, I’d try to distract you.”
“Oh?” This time when I reach for her hand, she doesn’t pull it away. “How would you distract me?”
Her fingers lace between mine. “Kissing you, to start. Do you think that would work?”
My dick, who knows damn well he’s not getting lucky anytime soon, not when Yara’s hurt, jumps to attention. I silently command him to stand down while saying, “It might. What else would you try if it didn’t?”
A smile curves her lips. “I might try touching you. Or taking off my clothes. Maybe both.”
“I think that would be distracting,” I agree. “In fact, it kind of makes me want to try something stupid and dangerous, just to see how convincing you can be.”
“Ace.” She squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to do that to get me to kiss you.”
“No?”
“No.” Leaning close, her lips brush lightly against mine. “I’m always willing to kiss my slightly bossy and overprotective boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
Meeting my gaze, her cheeks go pink as she asks, “Is that okay? To call you that?”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Yes.” The pink deepens. “You called me your girlfriend a few times. At my house, and later, at the hospital. So I thought…”
“Yes.” Cupping her cheek, I kiss her back. “You can absolutely call me your boyfriend.”