Page 118 of Saving Her

She shakes her head. “I honestly don’t feel capable of achieving anything else. Not even those things I just told you. Having a list is only going to add more pressure and increase the sense of failure.”

She’s not a failure. Not even close.

“What if I write some ideas down?” I ask.

“Write all you like, but you need to be aware your understanding of who I am and what I’m capable of is completely warped. This is going to be too hard.”

No, it’s not. And my perception isn’t warped. If anything, I’m the only one who knows the real Penny and what she’s truly able to achieve. I’ve seen her at her worst. This person beside me is merely a shadow of the remarkable woman waiting to break free. “Trust me.”

There’s another sigh. Another brush of painfully gentle fingers. “I do,” she whispers. “It’s the fear of disappointing you that makes this harder.”

I don’t know what part of her admission surprises me most—the trust I never thought I’d receive or the sweet way she wants to impress me. Both have an unwanted effect on my dick.

“You’re not going to disappoint me.” I scribble on the notepad, adding more tasks to the list. “We only need to focus on one goal a day. If you achieve it, that’s great. If you don’t, we can try something else.”

She refocuses on her task, raising the blade to my wound, not acknowledging my words. She tugs at the stitches, placing more and more cotton on the counter.

I get that she hates being here—hates me pushing—but maybe Sarah is right. I can’t watch her wallow. If this tactic doesn’t work I’ll try something else. And if that doesn’t help, I’ll find another way. I’m not giving up on her.

I keep writing as she tends to my head, the two of us working in comfortable silence until she gives a final tug to the embedded cotton, then leans real fucking close to inspect her handiwork. “You’re doing a lot of writing.”

“I’ve got a lot of ideas.”

She sidesteps, the blade and tweezers dumped in the sink before she rests against the counter to stare at me. “Well, don’t keep me waiting. What are these great ideas of yours?”

“You sure you’re ready?” I ask. “This is going to change your life.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, plumping her breasts beneath the heavy sweater. “You’re well aware I’m not ready at all. So hurry up and get this over with.”

I chuckle, appreciating her underlying spite a little too much. “Okay. Number one.”

She straightens, as if preparing for torture.

“Watch a movie with me.”

I didn’t think it possible, but she stiffens further, her brows furrowing. “Watch a movie?”

“Yep. As simple as that. Sit your ass on the sofa and chill out to mindless television. It’s better than the isolation of your room or the deck.”

Those brows rise for long seconds before she says, “Okay. I can give it a try.”

“Number two—teach me how you do laundry.”

Her smile creeps back into the conversation, her brows knitting. “Laundry? Really?”

“Really. I’ve been a grown man who takes pride in washing his own shit for over ten years now, but my clothes have never smelled as good or felt as soft as they have since you’ve worked your magic.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s called fabric softener, Luca.”

“I don’t have fabric softener.”

“Yeah, you do. I found it in the back of one of your laundry cupboards. It’s probably old enough to burn holes through your shirts, but obviously it’s doing the trick.”

“Obviously.” I mimic her eye roll. “Number three—exercise.”

She sucks in a subtle breath and I pause, waiting for the stereotypical female retaliation.

It’s clear she doesn’t need to lose weight. Her body is on point. What she requires is the shift in brain function.

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