Page 54 of One More Chapter

“You know, if I wasn’t mistaken, I’d say we’regetting along,” I smirk, waggling my brows at her. She lifts one, dropping into that deadpan stare that I’m coming to love so much.

“It’s the Tylenol. Don’t get too ahead of yourself.”

Even so, I can tell she’s trying to hold her smile captive.

After we’ve watched a few episodes in companionable silence, she rings the bell. I turn my head, and catch a glimpse of what I gave up when I didn’t choose her first.

Sleepy Pen, with her wild hair mussed from the couch, her half lidded eyes competing with gravity, a warm glow making her all soft curves. If she wouldn’t smack me stupid, I’d take a photo.

I lift my brows and smile at the tinkling sound of the bell. The corners of her sleep drunk smile turn up.

“Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” I say, letting the sandpaper scratch the rough edges of those words.

God, if she only knew.

twenty

penelope

“I’m so sorry,Pen. What can we do?”

“Nothing,” I say, resting my cheek on my knee. I’m curled in my office chair, one foot planted on the seat so I can sit this way. “Typing is going to be hell though. I don’t know how I’m going to make the next deadline.”

Rafe waves his hand in front of the computer screen

“Do not even worry about it. I’ll talk to everyone and get it figured out. We’ve got you, girl.”

After going over a few more things with Rafe, I close out of the video chat and exhale.

This week has been absolute misery. I might be right handed, but apparently, Idoneed my left hand to do a lot. Like drive. Type. Wash my hair. It’s also the hand I use to…

Whatever. My vibrator could use a break anyway.

Through it all, Anthony has been absolutely perfect, and it is absolutely suffocating. How am I supposed to hate the guy if he’s waiting on me hand and foot, while also not treating me like I’m incapable, and joking around like we’re best buds? He makes us dinner, and makes my lunches for school, lets me pick what we watch on TV, and has an alarm set for my Tylenol. He does it all without overstepping. It’s maddening. My arm hurts, my asshurts, my back hurts from sleeping on the couch, my head hurts from thinking too much. I need to soak in a bathtub.

Except, I can’t get my cast wet, and I need two hands to do most things bath-wise. Even after I’ve Jerry rigged a few Stop & Shop bags around my arm with duct tape—which took me a solid twenty-five minutes—I’m getting nowhere. The bubble bath that Ant bought me is lying half-spilled on the bottom of the tub where I dropped it, and I’m about to give up.

It’s such a shame to waste the luxury of this master bathroom. A full standing shower with two benches; a deep, platform bathtub with spa jets. Too bad I’m currently allergic to water.

“PJ! You home?”

I tilt my gaze back to the ceiling and silently groan at his use of my stupid nickname.

The one he gave me when we were kids. The one I inadvertently used as my author pen name.

“Yeah. In the bathroom.”

By the time I’m done hollering across the house, his thudding steps sound down the hall. He raps twice on the half-closed door with his knuckle.

“Are you decent?”

“If by ‘decent’ you mean ‘decently miserable’ then yes, by all means, come join the party.”

I hear his stifled chuckle before the door pushes open. His eyes are clenched shut, like he doesn’t believe that I’m fully clothed. How funny that he thinks I could manage inviting him into a room when I’m that vulnerable.

“You can open your eyes, Ant.”

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