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Not good, as it turned out.
Eli used to be the guy with the swagger—one he’d traded for a measured stride since the leg incident—and that swagger had drawn many a woman to his lap and then to his bed.
Of all the adjustments he’d made in his life, he’d saved women for last. Learning to walk, getting back into peak shape, working on building the charity was child’s play compared to the hurdle of dating.
He shook his head as he leaned the prosthesis against the wall, peeling the sock off his stump and resting it on the edge of the sink. What would she have done if she’d seen him without the leg?
Much as he wished he didn’t care, he did. The idea of her mortification at seeing him as less than one hundred percent man registered in an ugly, dark part of him.
“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself, pushing off the closed toilet lid to step into the shower. He’d outfitted it with a shower chair, which is why he chose to use this one rather than the tub in the master bath attached to his bedroom. He needed to replace the damn thing with a bench so it wasn’t glaringly obvious that he had to sit down to take care of one of life’s most basic duties.
It never bothered him before, but having Isa here…
He soaped his hands and started cleaning his body, smoothing his palms over the part of his remaining leg. She knew about it, obviously, so she hadn’t been shocked to see that a part of him wasn’t there. But today, there was something about her seeing so much of it that caused typically bold Isa to blanch.
Most days, he was in his office, legs hidden beneath his desk. Maybe seeing him had driven home the idea that he was different than what she was used to.
What is she used to?
He didn’t know. On the phone last week, she’d been desperately hunting for a date. It didn’t add up. Isa didn’t seem the type to desperately do anything. She was as sure as she was ballsy. Except for today when she couldn’t look at him. To her credit, he hadn’t been the least bit warm to her since she’d started working for him. That cup of delivered coffee a few minutes ago might be the first nice thing he’d done for her. He’d even made sure to douse it with the creamer she kept in his fridge.
Hazelnut.
He’d poured a splash in his coffee yesterday, surprised at how good it was. Sounded like a sissy thing to him, but a few nutty, sweet sips later, he was hooked. He’d added some to his grocery delivery service so she’d have plenty on hand since he’d been pilfering hers.
He doubted one delivered cup of coffee could make up for his being the belligerent, insulting, handicapped billionaire who was content to wall himself in his private warehouse.
What he couldn’t get over was that it bothered him. He’d found himself wanting to be seen by her as…well, as old Eli. The Eli who had swaggered on both legs. The Eli who used to be quick to smile. His dad used to joke that he was a sensitive Marine “like your old man.” But Eli’s sensitivity had been buried in favor of hardening. Crystal had accused him of growing hard, distant. She had never understood that war required a hardness unlike anything else. He’d done what he needed to be a good soldier.
Now that he wasn’t a soldier, he wasn’t sure what it took to be a good man.
He pictured the guys in his unit and squeezed his eyes closed. The pain that had lanced his foot and seared up his calf when the grenade blew part of him to kingdom come was nothing compared to the pain he felt when his friends took their final breaths that day on the scorching hot earth.
And here he sat feeling sorry for himself like a pussy. Another reason he didn’t indulge the rooftop view. Moments like this one unveiled a broken part of him and he feared he’d hurl himself over the edge.
“Whatever.” He stood from the chair to finish washing and rinsing, balancing by holding on to the bar attached to the shower wall. Soapsuds swirled around his foot. A strong foot leading to a strong leg. Even his injured leg was strong. Thick, corded muscles leading up to thighs he’d worked through multiple pains to get that way.
He didn’t need Isabella Sawyer to approve of him. He didn’t need anyone’s approval, and never had.
He turned off the water and climbed out, gripping bars on the wall to aid him as he sat on the toilet seat and dried off.
“No more of this shit, Eli,” he muttered to himself as he rolled on the sock and attached his carbon-fiber leg. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch.”
He stood and wiped the mirror with the towel, looking long and hard at his face. Lines marred his forehead from frowning. He was sick of himself, sick of feeling trapped in his own broken body and filled with unjustified anger. He needed a change.
He ran a hand through his beard, which had grown thick and was now borderline unkempt. He scrubbed the towel over it to get the water out and pulled the trimmers from the closet.
About time he started looking like the man he used to know instead of the one he’d devolved into.
***
Eli was quieter than usual the rest of the morning and afternoon. Isa ordered lunch—Mexican—and opted to deliver it to him and let him eat in private. Plastic to-go container in hand, she stepped into the shadowed room, the only light sifting in through the windows courtesy of an overcast day. Eli didn’t have his desk light on, only the computer screen. He was hunched, squinting, his posture abysmal.
She told him as much followed by, “If you can unkink yourself, I have your lunch.”
He blinked over at her, frowning as per his usual, only now she could see more of his face and neck than she’d ever seen before. She’d heard the razor whirring away and she’d imagined a big reveal when he finally stepped out. He’d ducked into his room, then the office without stopping to show her. She’d resisted curiosity until now, when she had a justifiable excuse to come in here and face him. Because, seriously, could she have acted more like a hormone-fueled teenager staring at him the way she had earlier?
Eli sat up straight and pulled his shoulders back. His T-shirt molded over a chest and torso she could easily envision bare.
