Page 52 of Complications

“How do you know that?”

“You think I don’t keep track of you?”

The code was Frankie’s birthday. So fucking embarrassing.

“The numbers are easy to remember,” I said defensively. Even as the words came out, I told myself to shut my goddamn mouth.

“Uh-huh. You can tell me more lies later, Jojo. Right now, you’re going to put some heat on that shoulder before you do something more serious to it.” He shoved me gently inside my little house. “I think this is the first time I’ve been in here.” Frankie looked around the open room and nodded approvingly. “Looks nice.”

The ridiculously proud part of my brain preened at the simple compliment. I loved my damn house because it was all comfy and mine, and no one was around to tell me that a small shrine to Anthony Bourdain and his fucking genius was weird. I grunted my response.

“Since when do you cook?”

“I don’t.” What I did have was a competency kink, and Bourdain had that shit in spades. So did Frankie, but I wasn’t stupid enough to say that aloud.

Frankie took a step closer and cornered me near the doorframe.

“Did you know I like to cook?” His thumb traced along my jawline, and shivers cascaded through my veins until one inconvenient spot chubbed up annoyingly. “Maybe you’ll let me borrow a book and try something.”

“Fuck off.”

“Jojo, I’d rather fuck you.” He said it like he was talking about dry cleaning while I choked on my tongue. Then, even more aggravating, he straightened himself, smoothed down his shirt, and stepped back. “But first, we need to get your shoulder relaxed.”

Frankie stepped back, took my hand, and led me toward the only other door in the place.

I let him lead me straight to my bed. I let him help me switch to an undershirt and sweats, and I let him tuck my ass in. Without a word, he somehow managed to make pain meds and a glass of water appear. My shoulder legitimately ached enough to skip arguing and lie down instead.

Usually, I hated when anyone hovered over me, but somehow, at least for today, it wasn’t completely awful.

Sleep blocked out everything, but his weight on the bed registered.

I wasn’t mad about it.

“Here’s your tea.”

“Where’s the coffee?”

“Lord save us all. You hate coffee and only drink it because you want something hot and don’t want to admit you prefer tea. It’s the orange spice that you have five boxes of in your kitchen and bags next to the goddamn electric kettle.” Frankie’s voice rose a few decibels by the time he got to the end.

He wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t admitting it.

“Fine.”

“You’re welcome,” Frankie said dryly.

“How long did I sleep?”

It had to have been a minute because he’d slipped out of his coat, rolled his sleeves up, and, based on the crumpled side of the bed, made himself comfortable. Moving on was easier than stopping to think about why he’d bothered to take care of my ass.

“Only about an hour. How’s the shoulder?”

“Fine.”

“Anywhere else hurt?”

“No.”

Frankie watched me from his vantage point near the door. His folded arms across his chest showed off the muscles of his forearms and the light dusting of hair across them.