Page 63 of Yours to Keep

“You’re not fine,” she said immediately. “You look like you got in a fight with a brick wall.”

“Nah, it was mostly just a face,” I said. “In my defense, he does have a very punchable one.”

She shook her head, but there was something else there too. Not approval, but not condemnation either. Somehow, whatever was flickering behind those eyes was both warm and furious at the same time.

“You fought him,” she said. “What are you, sixteen?”

“He left my sister at the altar and he didn’t even have the balls to tell her directly. So I went to confront him and when he tried to explain himself…”

“When he tried to explain himself, what?”

“Let’s just say it got to a point when I stopped listening.”

Her lips pressed together. “You’d better hope he doesn’t press charges.”

A clipped, short laugh came out of me. “Yeah, he won’t. I thought of that before I left and I’m pretty sure I’m safe on that front, but even if he does, no judge in the world would side with him after what he said.”

Bree held my gaze for a moment longer, then sighed and took a step closer before she even seemed to realize she was doing it. Her focus sharpened, cataloguing injuries like she’d fully engaged Caregiver mode now.

“Does anything hurt when you move it?” she asked, nodding at my hands.

I groaned. “Only when I exist.”

“Okay. Come on.” She inclined her chin toward the front door and motioned for me to follow her. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll see what I can do about patching you up with what I’ve got in my first-aid kit.”

Relief hit me so hard, it nearly knocked me over. “Thanks, Bree. I really appreciate this.”

She didn’t respond, simply leading the way to a small but warm apartment with a fabulous view of a brick wall from her kitchen window. Instantly, I could see that the bones of this place left a lot to be desired, but she’d made it feel homey with pictures on the walls, all sorts of knickknacks on the shelves, and a thriving potted plant on her windowsill.

As we walked in, she pointed at a couch covered in brightly colored scatter cushions. “Sit. I’ll go grab my stuff.”

She said it without looking at me, disappearing into a short hallway. I strode over to the couch she’d pointed at. I sat down, doing my best to move as little as possible as I looked around.

The knickknacks seemed to be keepsakes from vacations or experiences. There was a pair of Mickey Mouse ears sitting on top of a bookshelf and a few magnets from several piers and lakes on her fridge. She also seemed to enjoy fun walks and running for one cause or another, judging by the amount of medals hooked over the coatrack by her door.

Staring openly at these things that were clearly important to her, I almost felt like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar when she walked back into the room. She didn’t even look at me though, barefoot and carrying a first-aid kit with such confidence that I relaxed a little bit.

It looked like she’d done this a thousand times before, and she probably had. When she came to crouch in front of me, she took my hands like they were fragile and I leaned back on the couch, trying not to say something that would piss her off. She still hadn’t looked directly into my eyes again, but just before I got to the point where I would have been willing to beg her to do it, that bright blue gaze shot up to mine.

“These need to be cleaned,” she said. “Did you wash them?”

“No.”

She shot me an exasperated look. “Of course, you didn’t. What is this, your first fight?”

I breathed out a huff of laughter. “The first one since I grew a brain, yeah.”

Looking like she was biting back a smile, she nodded. “Okay, well, we’ll have to start by cleaning the cuts. Are you ready?”

I nodded, but the antiseptic stung like hell and I hissed under my breath. She must’ve heard me anyway, because a slight smile spread on her lips when she glanced up again. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You’re pouring fire on open wounds.”

She pursed her lips at me, like it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. “Just hold still. I promise it’ll be over soon.”

When she picked up the gauze again, I braced myself, determined not to move or even flinch. It still stung like a bitch, but something about the way she handled me, competent, no-nonsense, and careful without being precious, made me trust her. This woman had every reason to want to drag out my pain but I knew she wouldn’t.

“You didn’t have to help me,” I said quietly. “You know that, right? I wouldn’t have fired you for saying no.”