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Because he kept remembering Raven saying, “I just thought that for once in your life you’d give a shit.”
And he couldn’t help but wonder what that might do to a woman.
How that might make her react in vulnerable situations.
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, punching his pillow. “You don’t want a fixer upper.”
He didn’t.
He wanted a woman to love him for him. To accept him for who he was deep inside.
Not one who decided to dump her past drama on him and make him feel like shit.
But even as exhaustion swept up and dragged him under, those words echoed through his mind.
He woke before his alarm.
Mostly because the scent of cinnamon hit his nose—or his stomach.
Whatever.
He hadn’t eaten when he’d gotten home, mostly because the shit that went down in Raven’s room had stolen his appetite.
“Christ,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair, and rolling out of bed.
Covers tossed up to the pillows, his halfhearted attempt to be neat. Cell from the charger, scrolling through notifications. His scrubs from the drawer, yanking them on as he brushed his teeth.
Raven was feeding herself.
That was a good thing—especially when she was doing it without burning down his house, since that was a skill of hers.
“Fuck,” he whispered, knowing that was a low blow, even with the tension between them, with the barbs exchanged.
She’d almost died.
Caleb with her.
Cole and Kim had been at risk too.
And then when she’d come to in the hospital and realized what had happened…the guilt and pain on her face, in her eyes, laced through her words—
Yeah, he’d feltthat.
Which was yet another reason he’d ended up with her in his house.
The woman who’d worried about her friends more than herself had…well, he’d respected that.
He walked down the hall, bracing for the prickly woman to have taken up residency in his kitchen, for her to breathe fire when he dared to step through the doorway. But he needed coffee, and he needed to eat whatever the fuck was responsible for that delicious scent, so he risked encountering her, anyway.
Only…the kitchen was empty.
“What the fuck?” he whispered, frowning at the plate of cinnamon rolls, the icing dripping down their sides, pooling into thick puddles on the porcelain. Positively scowling at the cup of coffee steaming on the counter next to it.
But that wasn’t what sent his insides twisting themselves into knots.
Nope.
What had worry immediately filling his veins, burning through his middle, was the piece of paper propped up next to it.
