Page 8 of In Death's Hands
I let muscle memory take over. Three pumps of caramel, froth the milk, add an indecent amount of espresso shots. Next. I usually enjoy my work, the fast pace, the friendly atmosphere and the never-ending parade of faces, but all my still-hurting head can focus on right now is him. Nathan. The mysterious man who’s cared for me more in the last twelve hours than anyone else in my life sincethatnight.
It’d been a battle to leave his house, and as annoyed as I was with him, it was oddly endearing. After devouring the food hehad so kindly offered, I quickly gathered my stuff and promised to give him back his clothes soon. The small laugh that escapes me as I recall his outrage at my leaving draws concerned looks from my colleagues that I promptly ignore.
It was like my going back to work after what happened had personally offended him, and though I still can’t grasp why he felt that way, I find it rather cute. It had taken trickery for me to escape. Not that I believe him to be a deranged kidnapper anymore, if I ever truly did. He had only taken his guard down and moved from blocking the front door when I told him I’d stay and then faked a little fainting spell. When I asked for water, he’d been too happy to oblige, allowing me to finally slip out the door. The last thing I saw before closing it was his bewildered expression as he stood frozen in his kitchen with a glass of water in his hand. I bury the spark of guilt burning my insides.
An hour passes before the influx of people slows enough for Joana to pull me aside. “Seriously, wherewereyou? You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”
I choke on a laugh. “Well…”
“What?You can’t be serious.”
“I wasn’t hit. Not technically.”
“What on earth does that even mean?” Isaiah asks from the other end of the counter while finishing an order.
I look at both of them, unsure of what to admit. I don’t want to freak them out. Usually, I keep my accidents to myself, but this time I can’t cover it up that easily.
I blame the concussion, again, for not being able to find a proper lie in time. So I go with the truth. “I… uhm… I almost got run over by a car and Nathan pulled me away just in time.”
“Nathan?” asks Joana while Isaiah nearly passes out from the car portion of my statement. They both have their priorities, I guess.
“I’m fine, don’t worry,” I say, choosing to ignore Joana’s question. Sadly, she doesn’t give up that easily. I pick up a rag to go clean up the tables that have just been vacated and she follows me around the small space.
“Are you wearinghisclothes right now?”
I don’t answer.
“So I guess you needed to thank him properly after he saved you, huh?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me as if I didn’t already know what she meant.
Sighing, I gather the used plates and mugs. “Jo, nothing happened.”
“Sure.” She steps in front of me, blocking my way back to the counter. I’m literally backed into a corner of the coffee shop with breakables in my tired hands.
“Nothing happened! I was unconscious, he had to take me somewhere, so he took me to his place. Period.”
“Wait.” Her demeanour changes and I curse. Stupid concussion. “You were unconscious? Why were you unconscious?”
Fuck.
“I… may have bumped my head when he pushed me out of the way.”
“He hurt you?!”
“What? No!” Anger surges at her words. “He saved me from a car breaking me into tiny pieces, and in doing so I lost my balance and fell.”
“So he took an unconscious girl back to his place?” She snorts. “A hospital might have given less creeper vibes, Liv.”
Rolling my eyes, I push her aside and get back to work. This is why I lie about my accidents; people don’t get it. “I asked him not to take me to the hospital. I don’t like them.”
“Sweetie,” says Isaiah, having heard my last comment, “you should go to a hospital. You may have a concussion.”
I wince. “It’s fine. I saw a doctor last night and they told me I’m fine.”
“If you need to rest, we can cover for you.”
I smile, their concern warming my broken heart more than they could ever know. More than I could ever say. Huh, I need rest; this concussion is throwing everything into a mayhem that I can’t handle. I don’t let people worry over me; I can’t afford to. Their assessing stares make me self-conscious, and I’m about to repeat that I’m fine when a deep voice I immediately recognise cuts me off.
“That’s a great idea, actually.”
