Page 43 of Make Me Dream of You

“Thanks,” she says, looking between the both of us.

She covers her waffle with strawberries and then whipped cream. A lot of whipped cream. Then, when she thinks I’m not looking, she squirts the whipped cream into her coffee cup creating a steep mound, overflowing the mug.

“Oh my god, Wood, these are so good,” she says, after her first bite, licking some whipped cream off her lower lip.

“Thanks. It’s our grandma’s recipe. The secret is lots of melted butter and beating the egg whites separately.”

I get my waffle and cover it in butter and syrup. We eat and Wood serenades us, “Dancing Queen” by Abba this time, while he makes more waffles, bobs around the kitchen, puts dishes in the sink and eats bacon.

“How does your side feel this morning? Better?” I ask.

“I don’t know. How does it look?” Livvy turns her side toward me and lifts her shirt up to her ribs.

Worse. It looks so much worse. Last night it was red and swollen, just starting to purple. Today it’s doubled in size, black and blue, purple and green around the edges.

Fuck.

“Is it that bad?” She’s looking at my face, a worry line between her brows. She twists to see for herself and her eyes go big. “Oh.”

“Dude, that’s gnarly looking,” Wood says, forgetting what he’s doing and overflowing the waffle iron with batter.

Livvy grimaces and I reach over and pull her shirt back down. I don’t like Wood’s eyes on her.

“How’d that happen?” he asks.

My chest tightens. “It was my fault,” I say through gritted teeth.

“It was an accident,” Livvy insists, touching my arm softly.

“You don’t have to go to work today. You should stay home and rest.”

She waves me off. “I’m fine. Really. It’s nothing that would keep me from working. As long as I don’t get banged into any more walls.”

Wood side-eyes me as he takes a huge bite of waffle. I roll my eyes.

At work, I make sure to check on her regularly to see if she needs any extra breaks. She insists she’s fine.

But what if it’s more than a bruise? What if something’s broken? I’d never forgive myself.

I’m probably being too protective. But her injury is my fault. She’s staying at my place. She’s sleeping in my bed. How could I not be? How could I not do everything and anything to make sure she’s okay?

I can hardly concentrate when I’m in the middle of the back piece I’m doing. I keep looking toward the front desk, expecting to see her grabbing her side, her face twisted in pain. But she looks fine. She’s smiling, even.

Smiling too much. At Anthony. He keeps going up there. It seems every chance and break he has he’s using it to chat her up, leaning over the desk, showing her his half sleeve, laughing too loud, getting too close.

I resist the urge to growl at him to get back to work.

I’m having to resist more and more urges these days.

Over the next week, Livvy and I get into a nice rhythm of living and working together. We hang out with Wood in the mornings and go to work after lunch. If she’s noticed that I’ve made sure all our days on and off are the same, she hasn’t said anything.

Sometimes we’ll go take our breaks together at the little coffee shop next door to the shop.

I get us takeout for dinner, and we eat it together in my office. My desk turns into a mess of boxes and bags and napkins and sauce packets, and she always wants to try “a bite” of whatever I have, and I watch her take three.

Livvy doesn’t strike me as shy, but she’s…quiet—around me, at least. She doesn’t seem to be around Anthony or Wood. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m intimidating. Maybe it’s because I’m technically her boss now. Maybe it’s because I knew her when she was a tween going through her awkward stage.

I don’t know why, but I want her to open up to me.

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