Page 50 of The Cost of Forgetting You

My jaw slackens. “I’m not answering that.” But he’s got a point. Was it last night? This morning? I truly can’t remember.

He shakes his head softly. “So testy. Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

I try to ignore the way that sentence lodges itself into my heart, taking up far more space than is comfortable. Instead I scoff. “We didn’t exactly leave off on good terms last night.”

“Right.” His lips thin, gaze narrowing on the space above my head. “Bringing us back to the aforementioned apology.”

“I’m all ears now. Completely healed and ready to talk. Look at me, the picture of health.” I gesture to my body, which I’m now realizing is still in the same clothes as last night, bra and all. It’s digging into my rib cage something fierce. If it weren’t for Truett, I’d rip it right off. I settle for shifting uncomfortably in an attempt to dislodge the underwire from my soft flesh. The blankets are pooled around my waist, and I tug them higher to disguise my wiggling.

One eyebrow arches as his gaze drops to mine. “Bra bothering you?”

I huff. “You have no business being that observant.”

“It’s a gift.” He snickers. “Lean forward. I’ll help.”

I balk. If I could go any paler, I would. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Relax, Temptress. I’m not trying to seduce you while you’re sick.”

But what about when I’m not sick? The thought rolls unbidden through my brain. I wince, hoping beyond hope that his ability to read me like an open book didn’t catch that.

The corner of his mouth quirks. Fuck. What is wrong with me? One stomach bug and suddenly I’m stupidly horny for enemy numero uno. Ridiculous.

“I tell you what. I’ll turn my back. You try to take it off. If you can't, just let me know, and I’ll help.”

I scoff again. Cocky bastard. “Fine.”

He spins the chair around. True to his gentlemanly word, he doesn’t peek. I lean forward, sweeping my weak arms behind me and under my shirt. It’s a move as familiar as breathing, but for some reason my fingers can’t quite work the clasp. They shake and tremble. My biceps ache. A little grunt escapes me, and I swear Truett’s ears perk up.

“Need help?”

“Nope. Almost got it.” I finally get the clasp between my fingers. Sweat beads on my forehead with the effort. My arm gives out as I try to slip the hook and eye apart, and I loose a frustrated breath. “Just a new bra, that’s all.”

“Oh yeah? Do they stick more at the beginning?”

I don’t like the way he says it like he knows better. I don’t like that I find myself wondering how he knows better. Or, more importantly, who. I got one kiss, but who got the rest? Is he seeing anyone? The thought sends fire to the base of my neck that has nothing to do with the fever.

Ridiculous, I chastise myself. I do not care.

“Time’s up.” He rises, pivots on his heel, and closes the distance between us before I can protest.

I was just catching my breath, I want to say. I was gonna get it. But the words lodge in my throat as his hands—those strong, calloused hands—sweep under my shirt. They brush the soft skin of my sides, his fingertips dancing lightly over my rib cage. I suck in a breath, resisting the urge to unravel for his touch.

He undoes the clasp with practiced ease that only adds to the twisting in my stomach. He doesn’t linger beneath my shirt. In and out, with all the precision of a military operation. And just as much desire. I have no reason to be disappointed, but the feeling settles in my chest anyway, along with a painful realization.

I’m completely and utterly fucked.

His fingertips snake up my sleeves now, hooking the bra straps and tugging them off my shoulders. As soon as my arms are free, the torture device falls away from my chest, and I let out a sigh of relief.

He steps back, smiling briefly. It’s there and gone in a flash. I miss it so much I forget to breathe.

“Better?”

This time when he asks that, I’m actually able to offer a verbal response. “Yes, thank you.” I retrieve the loose bra from where it’s fallen to my waist and toss it across the room, not even checking to see where it lands. Truett’s eyes widen slightly. His golden cheeks turn a deep russet color. At least, I think that’s what happens. My eyes are growing heavy again now that I’m comfortable, and I could be misinterpreting. Or wishing.

The column of his throat tenses as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. A muscle in his jaw ticks. Those hands find purchase on his hips, bracing against the waistband of time-worn Wranglers. A fresh cut mars his forearm, the blood newly crusted over. There’s a dirt stain on the front of his faded Budweiser tee. He’s clearly worked all day, and yet he’s here taking care of me. Despite everything I said last night.

He was wrong about owing me an apology. Or at least only partially correct.

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