Page 93 of My Damaged Protector

She shrugs and then walks away.

I remain in the living room, walking through the moderately wide space to see how intact the windows are. I check the door lock, too. I'm about to go check the kitchen door and window when Sheila walks in, a concerned look on her face.

“You really think he'll come here?”

I shrug. “There's no saying. Something tells me it's only a matter of time before he finds her, though.”

She nods, a thoughtful look on her face. “And that's a bad thing?”

“I don't know,” I tell her truthfully. “I'm not a person that gets scared easily, but something about the look in his eyes as he delivered his last words tells me he's not going to go away easily.”

“I'll show you to the room.”

I follow her through the house to the room she’s arranged for me. I thank her as I enter, internally wishing I'd driven my truck. I would have had something to change into if I had.

Regardless, I strip my clothes off the moment the door closes behind Sheila and enter the bathroom, where I find a convenient large bathtub.

I run water and step inside when it's warm enough for me. I've not had decent sleep in a long while. Last night was a semblance of what I really needed. I won't be able to sleep if I'mkeeping guard. Which is why I put my head under the water for a few minutes and remain there.

I stay in the bath for over thirty minutes and only step out when I hear a knock on the door.

Stepping out of the water, I start to drain it and I grab a towel, which I wrap around my waist.

When the towel is in place and the water is all out of the tub, I enter back into the room.

A knock sounds on the door again.

“Yeah?”

“It's me.” Sarah's voice comes from behind the door. Glancing at the clothes I had on before, I debate about putting them back on.

I'll have to wear them eventually when I leave the room, but I still want to enjoy the little bliss I got from the bath and not immediately ruin it by putting clothes on.

Sarah has seen me with fewer clothes, anyway.

“Come in,” I say.

The door opens, and she enters with a tray in her hands. Feeling stupid for making her wait with that in her hand, I approach her and immediately take it.

“You could have just let me take it to the table,” she murmurs, her eyes everywhere but on my body, making me acutely aware of being behind closed doors with her despite all the issues between us.

“It's fine.”

She nods and starts to look at the door. Not wanting her to leave just yet, I strike up a conversation with her.

“What's in it?”

“Chicken soup.”

Hmmm.

“Well, it smells nice.”

“It tastes better. You're going to be begging for her recipes by the time you're done,” she boasts, a smile tugging at her lips.

I laugh. Finding the idea that I'll love food to the point I'll beg for the recipe is ridiculous.

“I doubt that. You realize that I'm a good cook myself.”

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