“I took a painkiller in the middle of the night because I couldn’t sleep. It must’ve knocked me out, and I woke up a few minutes ago totally disoriented. Landing on the floor was not part of the plan, and I’m going to have a matching bruise on the other side of my body.”
I walk toward her, crouching down. A full smile bursts free when I notice her hair sticking straight up in three different places. The line down her cheek, courtesy from the crease in herpillowcase. Sleep in the corner of her eye and silky sheets wrapped around her shoulders.
“Damn, Monroe. You look rough in the morning. That bird’s nest on your head is next level.”
“Screw you. I had vivid dreams, okay?”
“Of what? Wrestling a lion?”
“I have a whole closet of shoes, Dunn, and I’m not afraid to use them.”
“Put down your weapons, Pres.” My eyes catch on a stuffed animal half buried under her sheets and I laugh. “Is that Reginald?”
“It is. I told you I tuck him into bed every night.”
“You didn’t tell me you sleep with him too.”
“He’s my emotional support dinosaur.” Quincy reaches for him, holding him tight to her chest. “Of course I sleep with him.”
She kept the stuffed animal I gave her.
I don’t know why it seems like a big fucking deal, but it is.
I’m on top of the world.
“How are you holding up? How’s the ankle?”
“I’m surviving. I’m sure women in the past have told you that you have magic hands, but I don’t think that applies to this situation. You can’t fix it.”
“Theyhavetold me that.” I drop to my knees, sitting back on my heels. “You’re still in pain, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Quincy chews on her bottom lip. She untangles herself from the sheets, showing off bare legs. One foot with a sock, the other without. No pajama bottoms, just a big T-shirt with a cartoon avocado on it that hits the tops of her thighs, and it’s a feat not to let my eyes wander.
I’m weak, though. A pathetic excuse of a man, because I do look.
Just for a second.
There’s a scar on her left knee. Faded, a faint shade of white,and I’ve never seen it before. How did it get there? How long has she had it? Farther up are curves I want to run my fingers over. A tiny red mark just below the hem of her shirt.
I want to lick it. I want to find that tattoo she hinted at when we were at the bar, and yanking myself back to reality is the toughest task of my life.
“Can I check to make sure you’re okay? Can I help?” I ask. “Please,” I add, the hint of desperation behind it.
“Yes,” she whispers. “But only because I want to feel better.”
I don’t care what the reason is. I’m just thankful she’s letting me be this close to her. My gaze falters, moving over the front of her shirt and past her legs again. Her right ankle is purple and swollen, and I suck in a sharp breath. A whine works its way up her throat when she tries to move, and I rest my hand on her shin.
“Don’t,” I tell her. “You need to ice and elevate it.”
“I’ll prop it up after my show. I can be bedridden the rest of the day.”
“Your show? It’s almost ten, Quincy.”
“What? No. No, no,no.” That kicks her into high gear. She struggles to a standing position, unsteady on her feet. She rests a hand on my shoulder to balance and I grab the first place I can reach—the back of her thigh, which nearly sends me into cardiac arrest—when she wobbles, almost tipping over.
“Slow down. You’re going to hurt yourself more.”
“I need to get to my office. It’s down the hall. I’ll hobble there.”
