Page 44 of If You Never Come Back
Remy shoots wide eyes at me, but I pat his shoulder. “I promise, I’m good. Wes is right, you need to get back to the bar and lock up.” I tug on the hem of my coat, aware that I’m the cause of tonight’s chaos. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t—”
Wes shakes his head. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I upset you, and that’s why you ran off.”
Remy slow-blinks, zipping his coat all the way up to his chin. “Well, now that we’ve played the blame game, I’m off.” He turns to me. “Text me when you’re settled in your apartment okay? And let me know if you need anything. I can come right over when I’m done.”
I clear my throat. “I’ll pay you back for the ride later, okay.”
“Don’t even worry about it.” Remy turns his darkened stare to Wes. “Take care of her.”
He crosses the street just as Wes bends down to scoop me up.
“What the hell are you doing?” I try to wiggle out of his hold, but he has me firmly against him.
He kicks the entrance door open, then starts the three-story trudge to my door. “Carrying you.” He says it without a single labored breath.
“Why?”
“Because you’re hurt and it’s my fault.”
I have nothing to say to that. Instead, I focus on the feel of his hot breath hitting a sliver of exposed skin on my chest, right above where my zipper came undone when I slipped on the ice. That tiny hint of contact awakens my senses. I soak in the heat of each exhale as it hits my skin, the way his hard body feels pressed against mine.
We make it to my door and he’s barely broken a sweat. He sets me down, I unlock the door, and take a step inside. And then he scoops me back up and heads for the couch.
“Watch out for—”
“The dip in the floor,” he says, cutting me off. “I remember.”
I swallow hard as he sets me on the couch. The fact that he remembers makes me feel like I mean something, like I still matter to him—even though I know I don’t.
I focus instead on shoving off my coat.
“Let me.” He kneels next to me and my entire body flushes. It’s as if I didn’t just stand outside for ten solid minutes in the freezing rain. I feel so hot at his presence, at the prospect of his touch.
With gentle hands, he pulls off my coat, then my shoes.
His dark eyes connect with mine. “Your clothes are soaking wet.”
“You’re not going to change me.”
He turns away just as I catch the beginnings of an eye roll. He pads to my dresser on the other side of my apartment, returning with some yoga pants, a hoodie, and wool socks.
Before I can demand that he turn around, he heads straight for the bathroom and shuts the door. I do the quickest change I can manage with a throbbing wrist and ankle.
“Decent!” I call out to him.
He emerges with an ace bandage in hand and sits on the coffee table. “What hurts more, your ankle or your wrist?”
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” His brow furrows, clearly put off by my question.
“Did it occur to you to ask if I want your help in the first place?”
My phone buzzes, interrupting our frown-off. A text from Remy.
Remy:You make it inside okay?
Me:Yes. Wes is helping me get settled.
