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“I’m fine.” I sniff.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m so pissed off; I could scream!” I take the shirt he’s handing me.
He leans forward and wipes the tears from under my eyes. “Right here is my kryptonite.”
He lifts his thumb as if he’s looking at my tears and then makes an X across his chest—his bare chest. I close my eyes in an attempt not to stare at Major League Pope’s chest, abs, arms—those freaking arms—that ink that I want to hate.
“I’m not asking you this time. I’m telling you. I am going to make everything o?—”
“It’s not your pro?—”
“Whitley, shut the hell up. This is what we do.”
“No, we?—”
“You took care of my dying mother, Whit. My mother.” He points a finger at himself.
“I did that for her.” I sniff as tears fall harder now. I carefully put his shirt over my head and manage to get my arms out of my scrub sleeves and pull it off without showing any skin. “I loved her.”
“I know you did, and she loved you. But you also did it for me, and one day, you’re going to admit to it.” He leans back and links his fingers behind his head. “It will more than likely be after this bullshit is over with Kal.”
“He’s not going to let it go.” I nervously fold my soaked shirt.
“He’s not going to have a choice.” He leans in closer to me. “And neither are you.”
“And what makes you think I want to owe yet another egotistical male for helping out little old me?”
“Ego is something men like that create in their heads. I’ve worked for everything I have, and I’ll never stop. You and I are the same; we have pride, and pride comes from the heart.”
He reaches over and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze, causing me to wince.
He moves his fingers around my wrist, stopping me from pulling it away.
“Let it go, Pope.”
“He hurt your hand.”
I glance out the window and see the SUV pulling away, following behind the tow truck.
When I look back at him, he’s leaning in with his phone light shining on my hand.
“The truth, Whit.”
With Kal no longer in striking distance, I give him just that. “When I got to my vehicle after a twelve-hour shift, he was there. I hadn’t answered my phone or texts, and he’d sent several. He regretted them. He asked for my phone to delete them, and it pissed me off.”
“As it should.” He nods his agreement.
“We played tug-of-war with my bag.” I fight back more tears of frustration and anger and continue, “It spilled. I bent down to grab my phone as he stomped on it to make sure I?—”
“He stomped on your hand?” he asks, lip curling.
“He said it was an accident.”
“What does my very smart and intuitive friend think?”
“You saw me give him back his ring.” I start to pull my hand away, and he holds it up and rubs his lips back and forth over it. “What are you doing?”
