I shook my head slowly. “You don’t even know if I snore.”
“You will have your own room, so snore away.”
I smiled despite myself. God help me. I stood carefully. The knee flared, but less sharply than before. “Show me the room,” I said.
He stilled. The smile that had been there was gone. His hand twitched at his side. Was he going to help me down the hall? I don’t think I could handle that right now. I don’t think I could handle his arms around me or me holding on to his bicep that pulled his shirt tight. I gulped, because I also wasn’t sure I could turn him down again.
This time, when he turned toward the hallway, he didn’t feel like a CEO executing a plan. I followed, almost wishing he would offer assistance because my knee was screaming, knowing full well I would decline. Why was I like this?
Raphael opened the door and stepped aside.
I walked in slowly. There was a lush king-sized bed with a soft linen duvet. It had an actual headboard instead of plywood paneling. There was even a window that looked out onto the side garden instead of a parking lot. And, quite possibly the best part, an en suite bathroom with a walk-in shower. I could almost cry at the thought of no more gym showers. I stared at it longer than I meant to.
“I hope this is suitable,” he said in a voice that sounded almost small.
I crossed the room carefully, testing the floor with each step. The carpet was thick enough to feel forgiving. The bed was enormous. I ran a hand over the duvet. It was soft.
“This is more luxurious than I’ve had in a while,” I muttered.
“I hope it is suitable for recovery,” he said evenly.
I lowered myself carefully onto the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under my weight in a way that felt supportive. The knee throbbed angrily now that I’d stopped moving.
“I’ll let you get settled,” he said before he turned to leave.
I leaned back slowly, letting my leg extend. The relief was immediate. It'd been months since I’d slept on an actual mattress. My eyes closed for half a second. That was almost my undoing.
A knock sounded at the doorframe. I opened my eyes. Geoffrey stood there, dignified as ever. “Ms. Blythe,” he said, “we have relocated your belongings.”
I sat up sharply. “You what?”
Raphael remained calm. “Your van was unlocked.”
“It was not?—”
“It was,” he corrected. “Partially. We secured it.”
Heat flared up my spine. “You went into my van.”
“We retrieved essentials,” Raphael said. “Nothing more.”
“I could have—” I stopped, because the truth was sitting heavily in my knee. I could not have, not without pain, not without hobbling back and forth and making it worse.
Geoffrey stepped inside, carrying one of my storage bins. Raphael followed with my duffel. They set them carefully near the dresser. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to say something sharp and defensive about autonomy and trespassing. Instead, I looked at the duffel bag and toiletries in a room with solid walls.
“I would’ve helped,” I said weakly.
“You’re injured,” Raphael replied.
“I’m not fragile.”
“I did not say you were.” And there it was again, that small smile I’d seen in the dining room. That smile that softened my fight response. That smile that did more to me than I wanted to think about right now.
Geoffrey adjusted the placement of the bin slightly so it wouldn’t block the walkway.
“We will leave you to rest, but if you need anything, we do not need you wandering around in the dark. I don’t want you to injure yourself further. Please call me.” Raphael’s gaze held mine, making it impossible to think straight.
“Okay,” I said.
