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Chapter Twelve
Talia
Archer heeded Vivian’s advice about not taking me to the ER, but he insisted on a visit to urgent care. Two hours later, he parks his dinged Mercedes at the curb.
Before I can step out of the car, he’s there, helping me to my feet even though I don’t need him to. I don’t argue. He’s on a mission.
The conclusion at urgent care was that my wrist was definitely sprained, the injury mild. They wrapped it, which I need to do for at least two more days, longer if the pain increases. The doc felt confident I’d be back to 100 percent in one to two weeks, but cautioned me about being overconfident too soon.
“I was serious about the repairs,” I tell Archer as he palms my back and walks us to the entryway.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“I wrecked your Mercedes,” I remind him. He’s not reacting appropriately. The car’s in worse shape than I am. When I finally got a look at the front of it, I felt even worse for taking it out. “I should have stayed home instead of—”
At the entryway, he scoops my face into his hands, his gaze intent but soft. “Enough about the damn car.”
I nod, moved by the tenderness in his voice. I turn toward my entryway, but he stops me by steering my hips toward his side of the building. “You’re staying with me.”
“That’s not—”
“Go.” He pokes my back with two fingers. I roll my eyes as I walk up the stairs and then inside his townhouse. He helps me take off my coat, navigating carefully around my wrapped wrist. I plop my purse on the island and turn, prepared to tell him I have a sprained wrist and not a broken one. That he’s overreacting and doesn’t have to worry.
“Archer—” I start.
He cradles my jaw in one wide palm. Then he whispers, “Shut up,” before slanting his lips over mine.
I don’t resist. I fist his sweater with my good hand and tug him closer, aligning my body to the length of his. His tongue is warm, his nose is cold. His fingers dive into my hair, and I lift my arms to loop them around his neck. In our haste to hold each other, he bumps my injured wrist. I whimper into his mouth, and he pulls away, his eyes sparking with a mixture of concern, regret, and anger.
“I’m fine, honest.”
He holds my left arm tenderly, turning it this way and that as his eyebrows close in over his nose. “The eight-minute drive with Nate felt like an eternity. Until I saw you were okay with my own two eyes, I wasn’t sure what to believe. Seeing you was like taking a big breath of fresh air after being underwater too long. Wildflower”—his voice cracks—“you scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” He truly looks agonized, which I don’t understand. It was a minor accident, one that could have been so much worse.
“The apologies are going to stop too.” His hand in my hair, his fingers tousle the strands. He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Advil. “Two every four hours. I’ll be here to remind you. In the meantime”—he tips his chin toward the stairs—“go to my bed.”
Archer
I need to slow my roll.
First off, Talia’s an adult and can take care of herself. Second, I know she’s okay because I have not only her assurances, but a doctor’s diagnosis as well. Advil, ice, don’t overuse the wrist, and she’ll be as good as new.
But Nate’s and Vivian’s stunned—dare I say overjoyed—expressions keep replaying in my head. They’re enjoying the hell out of this, probably saying to each other, “Well, well. Look who has a girlfriend.”
The word hammers me again as I roll down the covers in my bed. Girlfriend. I can’t have a girlfriend who lives in Miami. Talia is going home as soon as my spa opens. At the rate things are going, it’ll happen sooner rather than later. Then what am I going to fucking do?
Hearing her shaking voice over the speakerphone rocked me to the core. Honestly, that’s freaking me out more than the girlfriend thing. In the past, my relationships have been casual. What I’m feeling for Talia can only be described as intense.
I frown.
“This is unnecessary,” she complains as she looks down at my bed. “Unless you are going to strip me bare and make me forget my worries.” She sidles over to me, raising her arms to hold me. I take in the bandage, remember the way my stomach flopped and heart nearly exploded upon hearing about the accident, and hold her away from me with my hands on her hips.
“Seriously?” she asks.
“You’ve been working nonstop. You’re going to rest.”
The heat in her eyes fades to hurt. I don’t mean to hurt her feelings, but I can’t make love to her right now. Not because she’s injured, which we could work around. There are too many emotions swirling around inside me. Sinking into her heat with my mind on how much I don’t want her to leave is a recipe for a two-tiered disaster cake.
