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He studies me, his head tilted to the side. He is so serious. I take the luxury of looking back at him. My eyes dart back and forth, capturing his eyes, studying the fine lines that intelligence has etched into his face. Drew has always been smart, but there’s something more now. Experience has sharpened him. That’s what life does.
You scrape yourself, over and over, against all the hard edges of life so that you become so sharp that people can be wounded by the wrong touch.
What happens when the right touch comes along?
His thumb begins to stroke the soft skin of my hands. My pulse flutters in my throat. As he touches me, all of my pain fades. It doesn’t disappear completely. The pain quiets. What has been white noise this entire time turns into a soft chant that matches my heartbeat.
“Lindsay. I swear to you, no one will hurt you again. Those bastards won’t get to you. I swear on my own life.”
I feel so inadequate. If I weren’t trapped in this bed, still reeling from the brake failure and all of the events of less than forty-eight hours that have plagued me, I would spill my heart right now.
“You really think it’s them. You’re sure?” If I stick to the very safe topic of my very unsafe life, then I won’t veer into the dangerous emotional minefield between us.
He nods, intense and protective. I can’t keep my eyes open now because if he keeps looking at me like that, I’m going to start crying.
One of the muscles in my arms starts to spasm. I cry out, the charlie horse making my position impossible. Drew stands up quickly, and helps lift my arm as I turn on my side. He steps back, watching me, his hands on his hips, as I settle into a new position that hurts less.
His very presence is the best medicine. While the doctors can help heal my body, only Drew can help heal my heart.
“I mean it,” Drew insists. “I’ve got a team of professional hackers working on your phone right now. The car is being analyzed for evidence. Within hours we will know exactly what happened to you. And once we know more information, we can act.”
“Is that what Daddy wants?” I don’t actually care what my father wants. But I know if I start to ask questions that aren’t related to the accident, that we will quickly slip into dangerous emotional territory.
“I don’t give a shit with what your father wants,” Drew growls. His words are provocative. Daddy hired him. Daddy’s goal was to be the most powerful political person in the world. You don’t go against a man like Senator Bosworth without having an agenda.
What’s Drew’s true agenda?
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why don’t you give a shit?”
“Because four years ago, nobody bothered to investigate. Nobody bothered to ask you what happened. It was all covered up. Hushed up. Someone has to right that wrong. Your mother and father thought that they were doing the right thing for years. Your best friends turned on you. I shipped off to Afghanistan and tried to forget everything that happened.” His eyes bore into mine and he leans toward me, his fingers light on my hand.
“I won’t make that mistake again. And besides, forgetting you was impossible.” He shakes his head slowly. “I failed.”
“Failed at what?”
“Failed at forgetting you.”
My skin buzzes. My heart cries out his name in the rhythm that pumps my blood through my body. His fingers flutter against my knuckles and all I can think about is having him touch me. As if he reads my mind, he reaches down and wipes one finger against the corner of my eye, down my cheek almost to the edge of my lips.
“You’re crying.”
“I am?”
Without asking, and without saying another word, he lets go of my hand and walks around to the other side of the bed. I feel the weight of the mattress shift, and my hips groan in protest, but then an enormous wall of heat is behind me.
Drew’s aftershave and sweat and the sweet scent of him envelop me, pulling me back to a better time. One of his arms wraps around my waist, careful to navigate tubes and sensors. Suddenly, this insanely dangerous development becomes an afterthought. I relax. Drew does that. He knows exactly what I need.
Curled up behind me in this tiny hospital bed, his mouth inches from my ear, he holds me. I could live in his arms forever. I’m so tired, though. I want to say so much to him. The pain comes back, and I can’t think. My head hurts. A painful pulse takes over the left side of my head, and I want to explain, but I can’t. I want to tell Drew all of the thoughts and feelings and reactions and all of the everything that I feel for him.
“Shhhhh,” he says. “You sleep. Later, we can talk.” The hand that surrounds my waist comes up and gently brushes a few stray strands of hair away from my cheek. It’s a soft touch. It’s a caring touch. Drew cares. I don’t know what any of this means, but I do know this.
Drew cares about me.
And not just as a client.
