Page 21 of The Prodigal

I don’t.

Not even when he turns on the water and it sends a burning pain through my hand. Despite what he thinks, I do have self-preservation—just not a lot.

Without another word, he grabs the bag he tossed next to me and pulls out a couple of bottles and what looks to be packages of gauze.

“Will whatever that is in your hand burn?” I hiss like the mere sight of it already causes me pain.

He tsks, setting down the supplies. “First rule of accepting help: Never complain. It comes off as ungrateful.”

“I’m grateful.” I scoff. “I’m just not looking forward to more pain.”

His eyes lift to mine. “Are you implying you’re in pain often?”

If I knew him better, I would swear I detected concern in his voice.

“Is that your subtle way of asking me if my stepfather abuses me regularly?”

His head snaps up, his eyes razor-sharp with interest. “Gerald is your stepfather?”

I shrug. “We can’t all have picture-perfect surgeons as parents.”

It was a crappy thing to say, especially since Remington has done so much for me tonight. He can’t help that he comes from a better family than I do.

“I’m sorry. That was shitty of me to say.”

He makes this noise in his throat that sounds a lot like a laugh. “I enjoy you being ‘shitty.’”

Taking my hand, which is still under the water, he turns it over, inspecting the damage. “Think I’ll live, Doc?” I tease.

He grunts out a non-answer, while dragging his finger alongside the cut. I know helping me is the last thing he’d choose to be doing tonight, so I don’t understand why he takes his time being gentle, making sure every inch of my hand is clean before turning off the water and handing me a towel.

“Dry around the cut.” He seems to be taking this minor injury a little too seriously. I would tell him that, but he’s calm and less assholish for once, so I don’t want to ruin the moment by arguing—even though that seems to be his favorite thing to do with me.

I see the almost-smile he keeps hidden. He may not like me, but he’s intrigued, though I don’t understand why. I’m certainly not interesting. My life is a complete shitshow. I’m the girl who works all night—okay, I nap on the job a little, too—goes for her morning run before class, only to end up back at work at the campus cafeteria. I’ve mastered the art of living off five hours of sleep. But I like keeping busy. It reminds me that I’m moving forward. I won’t always be scared of Gerald or hide from my past. Soon, I’ll be able to move away from Georgia and Gerald, and start a new life, where no one remembers the girl in the fountain.

“What’s wrong?”

I hadn’t realized I had been staring off into space. “Oh, nothing. I—”

Unfortunately, I don’t remember a lick of what I was thinking about. All I can see is Remington’s iconic leather jacket is off and his hands are full of supplies. I can’t tell you what the supplies are, since my attention is solely focused on the muscles under his snug-fitting T-shirt.

“Where do you work out?” The question pops out of my mouth before I have the chance to stop it. I mean, obviously, he doesn’t work out, right? He spends his evenings in a plastic chair smoking—not in the gym with headphones on, but…

Unceremoniously, he drops the supplies into my lap and pushes my knees apart, so he can get closer to my hand. I suck in a breath. “You could have asked me to hold the supplies. I would have.”

He takes my hand in his, those chilling brown eyes slowly looking up and finding mine. “You could have told me to call the police when Gerald entered the lobby and avoided me altogether, but here we are.”

Here. We. Freaking. Are.

I try yanking back my hand, but he simply holds it tighter, tsking me like I was a fool for even attempting to remove myself from his hold. “You are the one who gets a boner by inserting yourself into my business.”

A faint smile crosses his lips as he drops my hand and uncaps a bottle, placing a rag across my lap. “I’ll give you a free self-defense lesson just for saying the word boner.” He snatches my hand again, holding it in an unyielding grip. “Lesson number one: if Gerald ever puts his hands around your throat again,”—his eyes hold my gaze in a magnetic grip—“you stab him.”

I tilt my head to the side, not quite understanding where he’s going with this.

“With what? My super strong fingernail?”

He swallows and shakes his head, like something came over him for a moment. “Get something better than a bat, Eden.”

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