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“A condition?” Noah scoffs, wincing when he probes his ankle.
“I promise I’m not being cheeky.” I bite back another impish grin. “Bad things happen, and I laugh. Always have. I used to think that’s because it actually is funny when bad things happen to people I don’t like. Only, I like you and this isn’t funny but I can’t stop myself from smiling. I don’t know what to do and it’s sort of unnerving since I know I should be doing something I just don’t know what. I’m a horrible caregiver. It’s why I don’t have pets.”
By the time I finish my rambling some of the anger has left Noah’s expression, although he’s still sort of looking at me like I’m every bit the obnoxious little shit most people assume me to be. Even though that’s not an inaccurate perception, he’s never looked at me like that before. I don’t like it.
Pasting a concerned look on my face, or what I hope is concerned, I say, “Tell me what to do.”
I must get it right because the big guy offers me his hand to pull him up, and even though he must have at least sixty pounds on me I manage to get him standing with an arm draped over my shoulders so he can hop inside.
We hobble to the couch where he falls heavily onto the cushions, and I stand frozen waiting for more instructions.
“What?” He sighs.
I shrug helplessly. “Want a beer?”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“After I banged my head we had beer, and then…”
“I don’t want to watch you jerk off right now.”
“Whoa, I didn’t suggest that.” I was going to, after I got an answer on the beer thing, but now I’ll keep that to myself. “What do you want though?”
Noah’s head falls against the back of the couch. “How about an ice pack? There’s one in the freezer. And a dish towel.”
“Coming right up.” Coming right up? I’ve never even been a server—no one would trust me around the customers.
After rooting through half a dozen Tupperwares of food his chef person must leave for him, I find one of those gel things that’s technically ice although it’s mushy enough to wrap around a limb, which even comes with a Velcro strap so you can attach it. I make a note to look for one myself since it’s probably better than the frozen veggies I used as a kid. Grabbing a towel off the counter, I head back to Noah, who’s managed to get his foot propped on the coffee table.
I hand him the towel and ice pack, which he tries to wrap around his quickly swelling ankle, but when he can’t get it secure, I take over, even putting a cushion under his foot so the edge of the table doesn’t dig into his calf. I’m already getting better at this. Then I hover next to the couch, waiting for instructions since the cushion thing exhausted my ideas.
“Can you just sit?” Noah asks a few minutes later.
“How do you know where I am? Your eyes are closed.”
“I feel you looming.”
“I’m just waiting for you to tell me everything’s fine and it’s a false alarm.”
“It’s not a false alarm.”
“It has to be, because otherwise this is my fault, and you’ll hate me.” It’s not until I say the words out loud that I realize they’re true. Especially the part about him hating me.
For weeks, I’ve been preaching about boundaries, mostly for his protection but also for my peace of mind. It was supposed to ensure he didn’t hate me when the sex part of our buddy plan ran its course. I never anticipated he might have a reason to hate me that didn’t involve dicks and holes, and now that my antics have put his season in jeopardy… He might actually hate me for this, and that’s more unsettling than the idea of never getting to fuck him.
I don’t have feelings for the big guy. That’s not what this is about. But I do like him as a person. I enjoy his company, respect his honestly, and get a kick out of flirting with him. Have I been toying with him… Yes, but only because he allows it, and it seems to be helping him understand himself a little better. Until this little hiccup, it was all a little harmless fun. Now, I’m actually a little surprised he hasn’t kicked me out yet.
“Come here.” Noah holds a hand out to me. I’m not sure what to make of that since, A. we don’t hold hands and, B. the ice on his foot might be sending arctic blood to his head.
“What?”
“Come here,” he repeats, opening his eyes and pinning me with a glance that suggests he won't take no for an answer.
I take his hand with a furrowed brow, allowing him to pull me toward the empty spot next to him. As I take a seat, he drops my hand and rests his own on his thick thigh, flexing his fingers as he takes a deep breath. “Me getting hurt isn’t your fault.”
“Um…”
“And I don’t hate you.”
