Page 86 of Damaged

“Whatever you like.”

“You’re not one of those guys who can’t even boil water?”

“I’m offended you think I am.”

“Okay, James. I’ll eat whatever you cook. I should probably shower.”

“Of course,” he says. His gaze lingers on my body a little longer before he pulls himself away. It looks like he has something else to say, but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself and leaves the room.

I walk to the window and look out. I can see the frozen lakeshore in the distance. Ice as black as night interrupts the forest’s carpet of snow. I’m glad we’re away from the city. Any city.

I check my phone before getting in the shower. It’s a mistake. I have about a hundred notifications. How does the world know about this already? It doesn’t take me long to find out.

A picture from last night has gone viral.

I’m in James’s arms while he’s walking to the back of the Mercedes. The robber he shot dead can be seen in the background. His legs limp, a puddle of blood, black in the dark, spreading into the shattered glass.

James’s face is steadfast and serious, while I look like I’m half-asleep with shock. It’s an incredible photo, I admit. Although seeing it and knowing the world is staring at it as well makes me sick with anxiety.

I have DMs and texts from friends I haven’t talked to in years, asking if I’m okay.

The news behind the photo is what’s made it famous. It’s broken already—it’s estimated more than a hundred million dollars’ worth of artifacts were stolen. It’s one of the largest heists in decades, and the picture of James and me is under every headline.

I wonder if he knows. Of course he does. He just wouldn’t mention something like a viral photograph. It probably pisses him off.

I message my closest friends back. Hailee was planning to come to New York next week but wants to change her plans and come now. I assure her I’m alright.

I even have texts from my mom. Which is strange, in that she doesn’t closely follow the news. Someone else must’ve told her. I tell her I’m okay and will call when I get the chance.

I don’t like being worried over. I prefer to be the one worrying.

I shower, change into James’s large T-shirt that makes me look like a girl in her dad’s clothes, and find him in the kitchen.The house is huge and modern. The floors are blond wood, and the walls are clean and white.

The kitchen is the size of my entire apartment, and James already has French toast plated and steaming in the breakfast nook. He smiles at my clothes.

The sweatpants are cut perfectly around the ankle so they’re not too long, but the T-shirt looks ridiculously large. It nearly stretches to my knees.

“Nice outfit, snowflake. Breakfast is served.”

He washes the cast iron pan while I sit and eat, and I think he’s keeping his distance to be polite.

I’m starving and don’t care about being lady-like about how I eat. I drench it all in way too much maple syrup and scarf down the fluffy French toast. I take gulps of my coffee in between bites.

I don’t know if it was the near-death experience or the shock or what, but I’m famished and start to feel even more normal and less nervous once I’ve eaten and have some coffee in me.

I search my brain for trauma again. Am I damaged? Will I shoot to the ceiling when the doorbell rings and I just don’t know it yet?

But after some contemplation, I feel… normal. A little sore where I was hit, sure, but nothing else. I even start to have other thoughts. Thoughts I’m not sure I should be having because of the circumstances.

I watch James’s muscles moving under his dress shirt. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and his veiny forearms flex as he scrubs a pan. Somehow, he makes doing the dishes look masculine. Like he’s a mountain man who just finished frying his flapjacks in bear fat. If it weren’t for those damn thieves, I would’ve seen a lot more than just James’s naked forearms in the last twenty-four hours.

Last night was heading towards sex. I wonder if such a thing is even still possible.

James is hanging the pan on a hook over the center island when I speak.

“Have you seen that we’re viral?”

He scoffs and shakes his head. “Yeah. As if there wasn’t real news the media could be covering.”

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