I’m dripping wet and wrapped in a towel when a knock sounds at my front door.
My heart gives an annoyingly hopeful little kick before my brain can catch up.
And that?
That’s becoming a problem.
It was easier when Emmett Slate was just my patient. Easier when he was all gruff edges, clipped answers, and walls high enough to keep everyone out.
Then he started letting me see what’s underneath all of that.
And now he’s living twenty feet from my front door.
One thing I definitely didn’t factor in? How often he’d catch me without pants on.
I mean . . . it’s only happened twice.
But that’s still one hundred percent of the times Emmett Slate has shown up at my door, which feels statistically concerning.
I look at my towel-clad body and then at the watch on my vanity.
Shit.
He probably needs his dressing changed, and I have to leave for the hospital soon. Time is not on my side. Neither is the image of him trying to change it himself. Or the fact that the thought of him in more pain makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
Mind made up, I yank on my robe, cinch the belt, and hurry through the house before skidding to a stop at the front door. I catch myself with a palm on the cool metal, flipping the dead bolt.
He’s just turning to leave I whip the door open.
Resting my arm against the frame like I didn’t just sprint through my house half naked, I say, “Hey. What’s up?”
The casual tone I was going for comes out low and husky instead. And notsexyhusky.Too much spit in my mouthhusky.
Emmett palms the back of his neck, working at the tight muscles there while his gaze skims everywhere except me.
“I hate to ask . . .” His jaw shifts like the words taste wrong. “But can I use your shower?”
Those blue eyes finally find mine.
“Something’s up with the one in the loft. It’s been fine, but today the flow is practically nonexistent.” On an exhale he adds, “And I’ve got my first follow-up today.”
My pulse stutters.
He came to me.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Of course.”
The last two days have felt like an unspoken truce.
We’ve given each other space that neither of us asked for.
After Emmett looked me in the eye and told me no one outside of his crew had cooked for him in fourteen years . . . I cried in my shower for the boy he used to be and the man he had to be to survive—a person who expects nothing from anyone.
Without him asking, I knew he needed a minute. And me . . . I’m terrified. Every time he shares something, big or small, I care a little more.
I hold the door open, but his feet stay rooted to the porch, his knuckles rubbing along the rough stubble on his jaw.
“And would I be able to get a ride?” Emmett asks, ducking his head like he’s almost embarrassed to ask.
