Page 55 of Plum

“I got it. Thank you.” Adam shakes the man’s hand, and he leaves.

A nurse comes in with an ankle brace and crutches, miraculously quick this time. They get me set up, and then I’m hobbling out on Adam’s arm. My mind is whirling, and the stress and pain and general craziness is getting to me. I’m hungry, too, and I don’t do too well hungry.

Adam puts me carefully in the car, and then gets into the driver’s seat. I expect him to turn the key, but instead, he waits.

I deflate like a balloon, and lay my head against the window. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“You’re going to remind me of the address of the little yellow house so I don’t have to look it up. And when we get there, you’re going to elevate your ankle and take a painkiller. I’ll make dinner. And then we’re going to bed, and I’m going to fuck you very, very carefully.”

I must be truly gone, ‘cause his words make me forget everything and focus on his body, his shoulders brushing mine, his solid thigh pressing into my knee. My pussy tingles.

I sigh. “Okay.” I can’t solve tomorrow’s problems tonight. I might as well lose myself in the fantasy man squiring me around town in a freakin’ Maserati.

I yawn and press the button that warms the seat.

“You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. Not about money. Not about anything,” Adam swears, gruff and serious. He grabs my hand to his lips. I trace his bottom lip with my thumb. His lips are so soft, especially compared with his scratchy, stubbly cheeks.

“Your mom,” I ask. “She doesn’t worry about money or anything anymore?”

Adam’s silence is its own answer.

“How about you let me have my worries. I’ll let you share them, maybe.”

“Yeah?” His lip quirks at this. “You’d do that?”

“I’d let you have half. How about that?”

“You’re a generous woman, Jo-Beth Connolly.”

“When a woman has so much, it’s easy to give.”

“There’s my poet.” Adam moves his eyes to the road, and we pull onto Gracy Avenue, smilin’ at each other. He finds the country station, and I rest my hand on his thigh when he shifts, enjoying the play of muscles. He’s so strong, so sure of himself.

Which is why it’s so odd I feel the way I do. Fierce. Protective. Like I need to pull him back from the edge and warn him that he’s being too reckless, too easy with his feelings. It’s dangerous, the kind of want I see in his eyes. I’m kind of worried he’s losing it.

If I were a different woman, if I were my mother—hell, if I were almost any other woman at The White Van, I’d be counting his money right now. As it is, instead of figuring out what I’m gonna do with a sprained ankle, I’m worrying over a grown man, wondering who’s looking out for him, especially since he seems to be a functional lunatic, if that’s a thing.

I guess I’ve lost it, too, ‘cause it seems like I’m gonna let a man in my house. It’s been a strange few days.

CHAPTER 7

ADAM

Besides feeling like the world’s largest asshole, I feel like the world’s largest person.

Jo-Beth’s house is perfectly sized for her, but I have to duck every time I enter a room. When I go upstairs to take a piss, my shoulders brush the walls.

I don’t think she was exaggerating about never having a man in her house. Her sofa has two seats, not three. There’s one toothbrush in the bathroom and one chair at the small table in her kitchen. There’s another chair, but it’s pushed against a wall and stacked with catalogues and magazines.

I knew she was overthinking letting me in, so I didn’t give her time to back out. As soon as we pulled up in front of the house, I picked her up, ignored her fussing, and barged in with her in my arms. I saw the rock where she keeps her spare key. That’s coming inside tonight.

I sat her on the sofa, propped her foot on an ottoman, and then I left her to piss and poke around her kitchen to see what I can pull together. I could hear her stomach grumbling in the car, and she needs to eat to take one of the pain meds.

She hasn’t complained once since the club, but there’s strain around her eyes. Every time I notice it, I get more pissed at myself. I’m keeping it calm, though. She needs a break from the drama. We both do.

She’s unsettled, following my every move, tense and fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie. “What are you looking for?” she calls.

She has a pass-through between her living room and kitchen, so I can keep an eye on her. I’m in and out of her sight, though, and she’s craning her neck to keep track of me.

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