Oh.
My eyes sting, and fight back my own emotions, but I can’t imagine. He went through so much trauma so early in life, and to have that weaponized by the person who was supposed to help him sort through his feelings . . . it’s no wonder he’s not eager to go back.
“But I’m pretty sure they did.”
“They found me another therapist after Rory’s death, but I never trusted him enough to talk. Most of my sessions were complete silence. Eventually, I told my grandparents to stop wasting their money. They weren’t happy, but by that point everyone was tired and things were tight. So they didn’t fight me on it.”
“Are you going to find one now? If it’s a requirement to go back to work.”
“Fighting fires is all I know. It’s the only thing I’m good at,” he says, completely resigned. That only makes my hatred for his past therapist burn hotter. She’s, at a minimum, part of the reason he won’t get the help he needs now.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
EMMETT
Coffee spills over the edge of the cup onto my hand. I curse under my breath, trying not to wake Aspen as I tiptoe around her kitchen. The last time I was this concerned about making noise I was sneaking out of my grandparents house to drink shitty beer in the woods. Turns out there are a lot of things I’ll do for Aspen that I wouldn’t do for anyone else.
Like sticking around long enough to be here in the morning and make breakfast.
Skin pink and hot, I set the mug on the counter and shake my hand off over the sink.
Twenty minutes ago, I slipped out of bed after spending an undisclosed and arguably creepy amount of time watching her sleep. Long enough that my muscles locked up from staying still beside her after the nightmare.
I thought I would be more ashamed of her seeing me like that—this one was worse than the one she’s seen before.
I think about the email still in my inbox from Carl with the contact info for therapists. Sharing more about my childhood with Aspen was one thing, but I’m not eager to have a stranger pry into my emotions.
For all the crap I gave her about her nickname, it’s never felt like she thinks I’m broken. She just sees me . . . and she hasn’t left yet.
Somehow, after Aspen found me on the floor last night, I still managed a few hours of sleep. I spent the night alternating between bouts of shallow sleep and staring at Aspen in the moonlight, watching her chest rise and fall while I tried to figure out how I got so lucky to land in her helicopter, in her hospital, in her loft, in her life.
This bubble feels doomed to burst eventually, and I already know it’ll hurt. So will going back to that simple, lonely life I told her about last night.
I shut off the water, drying my hand on the towel hanging on the edge of her sink and add the mug to the tray she used the night the girls came over for margaritas. It’s piled high with two omelets, bacon, and toast for both of us. If I make it to the bedroom without spilling this shit, it’ll be a miracle.
Eyes on the tray, I lift it slowly, turning toward the living room—another first.
Who the fuck am I?
And when I look up to take my first step, it nearly ends up all over me because Aspen’s stretching, arms above her head, my shirt riding high on her thighs.
“Morning, Angel.” I don’t move for fear of spilling this tray everywhere.
“You made me breakfast?”
“I did.”
She smiles sleepily, her eyes dragging over my bare chest. “This is going to sound really objectifying, and I mean it with all my heart.” She waves a hand in my direction. “You look so hot in my kitchen.”
“Since we’re being honest. You’re a goddamn wet dream in my shirt.”
She saunters across the kitchen, hands sliding over mine and taking the tray from me before setting it on the counter.
“Know where it would look better?”
My eyes drop to the hem her fingers are toying with.
