Page 43 of All Her Broken Pieces

The fact that I’m still here after three days is monumental. At this point, with the way she’s been avoiding her texts, I don’t think she would’ve let even Becka stay longer than this. I don’t know a lot about her relationship with her parents, but it doesn’t sound like they’re super close either. If I wasn’t here, she probably would’ve tried to do it all herself, and that’s why she doesn’t appreciate anyone telling her she needs a man or a family. She doesn’t need anyone, but fuck, if a woman like her wanted me, chose me, I’d have everything I wanted in life.

I pull out the espresso machine as I move around the kitchen, careful to make as little noise as possible. Bridget had mentioned that she likes Americanos, so hopefully she’ll enjoy what I make her. Nothing beats an authentic Italian espresso. If I can master her favorite meal and her favorite drink, maybe she’ll want me to stay and help with her full recovery.

After several minutes of me clearly not being as quiet as I thought I was, Bridget emerges from her room, padding down the hallway into the kitchen before delicately reaching for a stool at the counter. I catch her wince as she starts to pull out the chair with her right hand, before switching to using her left. Her shoulder must still be bothering her.

I reach for her pain meds and drink, handing her the Americano as I set her meds on the counter and flash her a smile. Her hair is a little disheveled and her face is bare, and she looks so beautiful. Small button nose. High cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Plump lips with a Cupid’s bow and the tiniest laugh lines that only appear when she shares a genuine smile—which will be more often if I have anything to do with it. The most stunning blue eyes I’ve ever seen with the faintest of crow’s lines that crinkle when she laughs. Fucking stunning.

She doesn’t say anything as she reaches for the cup, but her eyes widen the moment the warm liquid reaches her taste buds. I’ve seen it countless times as a chef, the moment a guest tastes my creation, the light in their eyes, the way their eyebrows rise in surprise as a smile slowly takes over their features. It gives me life, and even more so because it’s Bridget enjoying what I made. I’d spend the rest of my life serving her if it meant I could give her that joy.

“This is delicious,” she groans into her cup.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Not great.” Surprised at her sudden honesty, I keep my mouth shut, waiting for her to continue, hoping this is a wall she’s letting me peek over. “My shoulder’s making it difficult to sleep.”

“Did you take anything for it?” I question, glancing at the two bottles of pain pills I set in front of her, one over-the-counter, and one prescription.

“No, I don’t want to depend on anything for the pain.”

“Or anyone?” I offer, unsure why I’m poking the bear who has clearly not had enough coffee yet.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes shoot up to mine as she gives me a once-over, and not the kind I like.

“You heard me. You don’t like depending on anything or anyone. And while it’s one of the things that I admire most about you, I’m literally here to help, so let me.” I say, sliding the pill bottle toward her.

She’s quiet for several minutes, sipping her coffee while she maintains her death stare with me. I contemplate how quickly I’m going to need to pack when she throws me out, before her eyes unexpectedly soften.

“My first full sentence was ‘I do it.’ Apparently, I’ve been self-sufficient from birth, which suited my parents fine since they always seemed more occupied with each other than me. And it was fine. I didn’t need a lot of doting on anyway. I’ve always known what’s best for me, and I’ve never been afraid to ask for it. I kind of raised myself. My parents were great, don’t get me wrong, but they were never in tune with my needs. I always told them what I needed, and they provided it for me.”

Understanding washes over me. She’s never had anyone truly take care of her, not even as a child. Being provided for and being nurtured are entirely different things. No wonder she never asks for help. It’s almost as though she doesn’t ask for help not only because she doesn’t know how, but also because her brain has convinced her that she can’t. The fact that I’m here being allowed to help her is a bigger deal than I realized.

“I’m not used to people wanting to help me,” she starts softly, her gaze cast down into her mug, as if it’s painful to look at me while she shares this truth. “You being here is hard for me. Having anyone see me like this, weak and fragile…” She trails off as her voice wobbles. Her eyes won’t meet mine, but I can feel the pain in them to the depths of my soul. I reach across the kitchen island and place my hand against hers as she holds her mug.

“You’re so goddamn strong. There’s nothing fragile about you, Bridget. You just had surgery. Some things aren’t meant to be done alone. It doesn’t make you weak.”

“But I should be able to do this!” She raises her voice, not quite yelling, but full of frustration. “My whole life, I’ve taken care of everything myself. I studied, I got good grades, I got into college and graduated with honors. I passed the GMAT and got my MBA. I landed a great job at a great company and worked my way up to the C-suite before I turned thirty-three. I gave up all distractions to accomplish what I wanted.”

It’s hard to ignore the number of times she said “I,” and it breaks my heart to think of all she had to do on her own. “What kind of distractions?” I question, though I fear I already know the answer.

“Relationships. They’re messy and steal focus from everything I’ve tried to accomplish for myself. I knew enough about how to fit in, what I needed to do to get the right people to like me, respect me, want to promote me. But I keep my head down and do my work. I produce results, and my numbers speak for themselves. And I’m good at it. Fucking great at it.” Her head is still down, eyes staring into her coffee.

“But at what cost? You can have a career and friendships, Bridget. You don’t have to sacrifice real human connection to succeed.”

“I have to. I can’t…” She stops herself as her nervous energy manifests. The fingers not covered by my hand tap against her cup as her leg bounces against her stool making a small squeaking noise as it moves. Her head tilts side to side, her eyes still avoiding mine, as she tries to stretch her neck while I continue speaking.

“Why can’t you? What happened that made you have these feelings? Was there some shitty asshole who made you feel this way about yourself?”

Her whole body stills, her little fidgety movements ceasing as it’s clear I’ve struck a nerve. She pulls her hand away from mine as she brings her cup to her lips and takes a sip while she avoids answering my questions for several minutes. I watch as she opens the pill bottle and takes one, following the bob of her throat as she swallows.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” There’s a finality in her tone that makes me hesitant to press further, yet I’m grateful for the walls she let me climb just now.

CHAPTER15

Bridget

The next morning,I emerge from my bedroom like a zombie looking for fresh brains in the form of caffeine. I had trouble sleeping for more than two hours at a time between my shoulder pain, my abdominal pain, and my racing thoughts. I probably should’ve taken my pain medication, but I only want to use them when necessary. I will not become dependent on anything or anyone.

Ethan has the espresso machine on the counter again and is fiddling with the knobs and parts. And he’s shirtlessagain. Did this man not pack any T-shirts? As I get closer to the kitchen, I notice that Ethan is not only shirtless, he’s wearing a towel slung low over his hips, the deep V of his muscles drawing my attention down to the bulge I see hiding behind the white cotton.

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