Page 41 of Downpour

“Because I don’t need anyone to.”

She swallowed. “Right.”

“Thanks for suggesting lunch,” I muttered.

Her lips turned up slightly, but it wasn’t much. “Is this the part of the day where I’m supposed to start ignoring you?”

The twitch in my dick told me that it was for the best.

Because as much as I wanted her, I shouldn’t.

10

BROOKE

The distant spray of the shower was the only thing that kept the house from being completely silent. I knew it was a job, but being with Ray didn’t really feel like work.

He was completely capable and took care of himself. I was sure a lot of it came from the sheer stubbornness of not wanting to ask for help, but he had figured it all out on his own.

I plucked another piece of candy from the bag he had left on my nightstand—a blue one this time—and let it melt on my tongue.

I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on why there had been a bag of my favorite candies—in only the colors I liked—waiting for me when I moved in.

It was so simple, but it was the sweetest thing anyone had done for me in a long time.

It had to have been Ray. He let Cassandra help him sometimes, but she didn’t seem like the type to sit and sort candy colors.

He was cranky and grouchy. But honestly, I would be too if people refused to listen to me all day.

There was an acute sadness in his eyes. A light that had been dimmed. But there was something behind it, too. Like lava simmering beneath black rock. Heat flashed in his irises every time he looked at me.

But maybe I was just imagining things.

The water shut off and I heard him rummaging around. It sounded like his shower had a sliding door.

My heart skipped, and I sat up. Did he need help getting out? Even accessible showers were slick. I had helped plenty of clients in and out of the shower. It wouldn’t have even fazed me.

But would it bother him? Ray had given me strict orders to ignore him.

I waited and listened. It was silent.

Okay, that was probably good. He was being careful.

My heart thudded in my chest, and I held my breath.

A loud slam that sounded like a body falling echoed through the walls.

I bolted off the bed and ran into his room. “Ray!”

“Go away!” he roared.

I froze in my tracks. His wheelchair was in the bedroom, but he wasn’t. The bathroom door was open and steam floated out.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. I had to be hallucinating.

Ray was—he was standing.

Black boxers painted his ass, but that was the extent of his clothing. Tattoos covered his arms and chest. The inked designs flexed like waves as he held onto the bathroom vanity to support his weight.

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