Chapter 18
AUTUMN
“Fuck.”
The word permeates my sweet dream, yanking me from the field of freshly baked blueberry muffins I was eating my way through, and plopping me back into reality, a.k.a. a sun-drenched brown bedroom.
Stretching my arm out across the mattress, I notice the empty bed before I turn to verify. “Fuck,” reaches my ears, pulling me from bed before I have a chance to pinpoint where it’s coming from. “Brandon?”
I kick the tangled covers from my ankles and land on my feet.
Running to the bathroom, I call out, “I’m coming.
” I push the door open, expecting to see him lying on the bathroom floor, or in the shower, or even on the toilet, but he’s not.
Scrambling out of the bathroom, I run down the hall and scan the living room and kitchen with my head on a swivel.
I head back to check the front door when I hear, “Autumn?” yelled from outside.
I tug the back door open and run out to a crisp morning that covers my skin in goose bumps and bright sunshine. “Brandon, where are you?”
He groans before mumbling, “Down here.”
When I reach the rail, I lift on my toes to peer over.
I’m greeted with flexed biceps and a sweaty chest, but my gaze bounces from the blood staining his skin to the axe on the ground next to where he stands.
“Don’t move.” Tearing down the steps, I run so fast that I launch off the second step and land on the grass, running until I reach him. “Where are you hurt?”
“Is it bad?” he grumbles, seemingly suffering more from annoyance at the situation.
The string of swear words would back that theory, but I still inspect the area around his arm and the side of his chest to figure out where the blood came from.
Since it’s not obvious, I look down at the axe in the grass, not seeing any red scraped across the blade.
I’m not upset about that. I look back up at him, and ask, “Why are you bleeding?”
His eyes travel down from mine, landing on my chest. The cool air, sweaty hunk of a man, and thin fabric all contribute to my nipples standing at attention for him. I cross my arms over my chest until we can get to the bottom of what’s happening. “Brandon, what’s going on?”
Nodding his head toward the trees, he says, “I was running and took a dive.”
“Took a dive?” The memory of first seeing him in the hospital bed, the swelling under his eye, and a fear of what could have happened rises like bile in my throat. A fall, considered simple at other times, could set him back milestones in his recovery. “You fell?”
“I veered off the trail like I normally do. There was some underbrush that wasn’t there a week ago. I’d been clearing out the areas where I venture, but Mother Nature will always reclaim what’s hers.”
“Why would you go running without a doctor’s approval?
” I point at the brush I can’t see, while planting the opposite hand on my hip.
“Or at a minimum, mine?” I bite my lip to keep from saying what I shouldn’t, but the concern I had coming out here turns to anger.
“Anything could have happened to you, and I wouldn’t have known where you were.
What was your plan? Did you carry your phone?
How is your back?” I move to the other side of him and run my finger along the edges of the bandage.
“How is your shoulder? Are you in pain?”
“I know you want to worry about me, but it’s not your job anymore.”
All it takes is those five words to light a match inside me.
“Not my job? Did you think I’d just walk out the door and never look back?
” I walk toward the trailhead, standing with my feet on the edge of it, and aiming my gaze through the trees until the dirt path disappears.
“You can’t do stuff like that without telling someone.
If not me, then someone else. You have a concussion.
Running isn’t recommended for your treatment plan. ”
“I searched it online, and the threads said it was fine—”
“The threads?” The shock of him saying that out loud has me whipping back around to face him.
“You searched it online? Big mistake.” I drop my head into my hand to rub my forehead, hoping to ease the headache that wants to come on.
When I look back up, I say, “I’m so glad you’re listening to the armchair professionals online.
As for the real world, running with any kind of intensity can cause undue psychological stress.
You’re recovering. Let’s not backpedal.”
“How am I supposed to know these things if you’re not around?”
I already packed my dirty clothes last night and was ready to move back home today.
Not because I wanted to leave, but I’ve lost focus on my job and have been enjoying my time with him a little too much, considering I’m being paid.
We’ve grown so close in such a short time that I’m afraid of what will happen if I stay the full week as initially planned.
If I remove myself and what I want from this scenario, I’ve become redundant.
“You don’t need me,” I say. “You’re capable of taking care of yourself.
I’m not saying this because I want you to, but because you’ve shown me through your actions that you are able.
I’m not complaining about the shower, but you’re very close to successfully doing it by yourself.
So instead of feeling like a nurse who can make a difference in your life, I’ve become nothing more than a babysitter. And you don’t need that either.”
“I do need you.”
The lines pinched between his brows only reaffirm how much he believes that. “Not for the right reasons.”
“How wrong can they be?” His expression lifts, a smile tempting the corners of his mouth upward.
“You need me to stay because you like the company.” It’s not exactly a bad thing that he wants me around for his own benefit. That street runs two ways. “That’s all.”
“That’s all I need, for you to know I want you to stay.”
Toeing the handle of the axe, it doesn’t budge. I bend down to pick it up, but I’m surprised by its weight and drop it. “You weren’t lifting this, were you?”
“No. Why?”
The relief I feel when he replies is unmatched. The damage this would cause to his muscles would set him back a month or longer. “It’s heavy, really heavy, and you don’t need to strain your muscles. But I’m still at a loss as to where the blood came from. From the fall?”
“Yeah.” He lifts his good arm and shows me the skin that’s been ripped. “A broken branch got me.”
“Got you is an understatement.” Taking his hand, I start to tug him back to the steps. “We need to get you cleaned up to see if you’ll need stitches.”
He doesn’t put up a fight, and by the third step, his grip tightens around my hand like it’s his to hold. I shouldn't love the way I feel safer with his hand wrapped around mine or the way he causes my heart to beat faster. But I do. I really do.
I slept better sharing the same bed with him than I do at home.
And we didn’t even do anything other than hold each other or lie next to each other.
How do feelings pop up out of nowhere like that?
I’m making my way and minding my own business, dreaming of having a little place to call my own and a job where I get to spend more time helping people than I do desk work.
Only a few days into this reunion we’re having, and boom, I feel like he cares about me like I do him. It doesn’t hurt that he doesn’t remember what happened between us.
When we walk inside, I pull him toward the peninsula.
“I didn’t bring a full kit, but I have some wipes and bandages, which will work for this new wound.
Come sit.” He sits on the barstool and raises his arm for me.
I clean the area and take another look. “It looked worse than it is. You won’t need stitches, but there is some bruising on your ribs.
” I stand, looking at him. His lopsided grin tells me he’s absolutely eating this up, and those eyes that hold a million mischievous ideas inside are telling me he’s already plotting another way to get me to stay, since this scratch, even though it’s not pretty, won’t justify the change in plans. “Is that from today?”
“Probably. I don’t know. Would I even notice anymore?” he says, his tone matching his sourpuss expression.
I smooth a clean bandage over the wound, and eye him suspiciously. His pout is ridiculous, but I can’t help myself. “Do you want me to kiss it and make it all better?”
His eyes light up. I roll my eyes, kissing the tips of my fingers before pressing them to the bandaged wound. “You’re all good again.”
He reaches up, a subtle flinch from his shoulder to his eye, when the arm that is his saving grace and still fully works is lifted to touch his lips. “What about here?”
I really hate how handsome this man is. So distracting.
He really makes it hard to look away. “You got that charm of yours working overtime.” If he keeps this up, he’s going to get more than he bargained for when I kiss him smack on the lips, just to determine whether it’s as good as I always imagined.
Not that I ever imagined kissing Brandon Culver. Why would I want to kiss someone who once pressed his lips to mine and then was seen later that night with Chantilly Flic—Don’t wind yourself up over stuff that no longer matters, Autumn.
“Believe it or not, it comes natural.”
“I believe it alright. Dolly used to warn us girls about guys like you.”
His grin grows into a full-tilt smirk. “Yeah? What was that warning?”
“Don’t let them go.” I laugh under my breath. “She’s not the best for advice when it comes to men.”
Chuckling, he says, “I always heard she was a flirt.”
“Her reputation precedes her.” I anchor a hand around the side of my waist, and ask, “Now back to your lips? What’s going on?” Other than me being drawn to the fullness of them.
“I think I have a boo-boo that needs kissing, too.”
With his hair hanging over his forehead and some blood dried on his chest, he couldn’t look more rugged and masculine. I’ve waged this war before. Last night, I wanted to kiss him so badly that I had to leave the room altogether to get myself under control. “I can do you one better.”
“Oh yeah?”
Tapping his nose, I say, “I can call your mom to do it.” I toss the wipes and trash in the kitchen.
He stands with his shoulders dragging as much as his head. “I’m good.”
“Are you? You don’t seem good.” Why is beating him at his own game so entertaining? I’m not usually one for the antics, but it’s kind of fun since no one is getting hurt.
“I’ll live. I’m going to shower.” Leaning against the corner that leads to the hall, he stops. When our eyes connect, he asks, “Want to join me?”
The answer is no, but for some reason, I can’t get myself to say it. “Can I ask you something first?”
“Anything.”
I come around the peninsula and walk toward him, not wanting to shout across the room.
But even more, I want to see the truth in his eyes, because that will determine how everything goes from here.
Stopping just two feet in front of him, I ask, “Earlier, when you asked me to stay, were you talking medical fraud, or do you really need me to stay for personal reasons?”
“What answer would get me the response I want?”
“The truth.”
He comes to me, taking my hand in his and angling his head to the side while he looks at me. There’s no joking in his demeanor or even a residual grin hanging around like a groupie after a concert. It’s just him and me.
“I’m not looking to go to jail, but I’m also not opposed to breaking a few rules to get you to stay with me a few more days.”
My swallow tightens my throat, but my heart feels wide open, exposed in a way I’m not used to. I take a long overdue breath and then say, “What would have happened if I hadn’t been here?”
“I would have bled out.” He winks.
I dropped the line, and he picked it right up. “Lucky for you, I was here to help.” I wink right back. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m tired of trying to figure it out. Don’t I deserve nice things? Staring straight into his eyes, I accept my fate. “About that shower . . .”