Page 18 of Not a Perfect Save

Beside it, under a large window, is a beige sewing machine and a metal stool. On one side of the room are two doors, a large flat-screen TV mounted between them. A small red couch is against the opposite wall, fronted by a square coffee table.

To my right is the kitchen. I toe off my shoes by the pile of assorted footwear by the front door.

“What are you doing?” Ella asks, her brows creasing.

“What does it look like? I’m not leaving you here on your own.”

“Why not?”

I raise my eyebrows in exasperation. “What do you mean, why not? Didn’t you hear the nurse? You need someone around for twenty-four hours, remember?”

Ella waves off my concern. “It’s fine, really. She was just being careful. You heard her talking about hospital liability issues. They’re just worried about malpractice lawsuits. Besides, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“Your point?”

“Nothing ever happens in the middle of the afternoon.”

Right then, the sound of sirens whooshes by her building. I lift a brow. “You were saying?”

A smile pulls at my lips when she harrumphs.

“Fine. Suit yourself. But don’t come barging in. This time I’m staying in my room. Alone.”

“As you wish.”

“Gah. Even quotes the Princess Bride. Could he be any more perfect?” she mutters as she limps through one of the doors—my teeth clench. I’m not a fan of the label, but she doesn’t have to make it sound so damnedbad.

Sounds of Ella moving about her room come through the thin walls. I suppose it’s too much to hope that she asks me to help her undress again. I imagine peeling those thin white straps down her shoulders, dragging them down her arms, before I pull the bodice down her breast and belly and follow that path with my tongue.Fuck.

I examine the rest of the apartment in an attempt to get my dick under control. Stuff is strewn everywhere. I gather scraps of paper, mostly of fashion sketches, and stack them together on a side table. A silver frame is propped beside the remote—Ella and her parents at her graduation. I didn’t think she resembled her parents before, but they all have huge matching smiles in the photo.

The fridge is stocked with an oldish apple, half a bottle of juice, and a quart of expired milk. I pour it down the sink, rinse the plastic bottle, and wash the dirty dishes. I open the cupboard to put them away. My stomach curdles. Apparently Ella lives on fermented funk—kimchi, sauerkraut, aachar.

This woman is going to ruin me, I can already tell.

Chapter Eleven

ELLA

Jake’s wordscontinue to ring in my ears while the water sluices down my back.Never met a wounded bird he didn’t like.

I’m not a damned bird. If anything, I’m a phoenix, rising from the ashes, bright as the sun—avery broken phoenix.I sigh as I prop myself against the tile like a wet mop in danger of falling.

The last thing I want is yet another person looking after me. Especially not the gorgeous football star doing who-knows-what in my apartment.

My fingers are pruning. It’s time to shut off the water. I dry myself off with a small towel hanging behind the door of the bathroom, thankful that it is an en suite and I don’t have to cross the living space. In my bedroom, I don ratty Minnie Mouse pajamas before crawling into bed. It’s barely 2 p.m. and I’m exhausted. Not that it does me any good since now I can’t sleep.

I stare at the ceiling and watch as the sunspots move across it.

I gasp,coming awake. My heart is beating, rapid-fire. I recognize the scent of laundry detergent and sheets, not stinky breath and body odor. Blankets are twisted around me and I’m not actually imprisoned by hairy arms.I’m fine. I’m fine.I swallow to soothe the dryness in my throat and take slow deep breaths, trying to ease the tension that’s coiled up around my spine. Of course, I’m fine. I saved the day, remember?

But really, would I have found the guts to do it without having Connor there?

I roll onto my back and contemplate all that’s happened since I met the one Mr. NFL star. Connor deserves more than a little credit. I recall him holding my eyes in the mirror at the bodega. Then, at the hospital, how he didn’t leave me on my own. In his home, his hands were warm on my thighs, as he freed me from my clothes. The memory of his touch on my skin makes me tingle. Deep within my belly, I clench.

My fingers find his buttons.

I’m pulling off his clothes.

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