Page 31 of Handle with Care
“Will, go to bed. Seriously, are you always this stubborn?” I frown at him. Talk about someone who doesn’t know when to call it a night.
“I’m not. I’m…”
“You’re what?”
“Tired.” He sighs and starts unbuttoning his shirt, color still in his face. It’s cute, actually, that a man who looks like that might actually be shy. And as I hoped, he’s built, a runner’s slim physique. His chest is covered in fine hair. He’s totally gorgeous, toned, and I bet those muscles would be delightful to run my fingers over.
I do my earnest best not to gawp. Meanwhile, Will’s looking anywhere but at me. He turns slightly away.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to stare like that. I’ll try to be more subtle about my staring.” I do my best to keep my tone light. I’m not sure what to say next that doesn’t sound hopelessly silly. By some miracle, I keep my mouth shut.
He doesn’t have a girlfriend.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want a girlfriend.
Stop it.Also, he’s highly annoying, remember? And straight. Though it costs nothing to look. Don’t look at him like a creep. God, though, he’s so easy to look at. Why am I clocking thisnow?I’d pre-clocked his hotness on that first day I saw him, but I soon filed that thought under A for annoying as hell.
He takes off his fancy watch and puts it on the bedside table with care and looks around. I’ve brought in our messenger bags, on the table by the door, and the loaned exhibits, which are in a box beneath the table. He looks relieved at the sight of them. “Dylan…”
“Yes?” My breath catches then, and I glance at him a bit too quickly. It’s not like my name’s an invitation or anything—stop it right now. The man’s ill, for crying out loud.
“I don’t know how to say this…”
Will shifts awkwardly. He fidgets with his belt buckle.
Like that’s not distracting or anything. He’s got to be doing this on purpose because he knows at least thatI’mnot straight. Maybe he’s bi-curious. Maybe he only wants me to go get him some dinner. Maybe?—
“I never imagined a scenario where you’d see me like this, and you’re right, I’m wrecked and ready for bed, and, well?—”
“Yes?” I blurt again. Is he trying to proposition me? Which is ridiculous, but?—
He blushes furiously and stares anywhere but at me. “You see,” he says simply, “I’ve lost my leg.”
I cough. He said what? His leg? What does that mean?
My brain struggles to keep up, while blood flow has increased somewhere else at a very inopportune moment.
Belatedly, I come back to reality. “You… what?”
“My leg. I only have one.” He continues to study the small landscape painting on the wall with intense focus. His throat works as he swallows. “And the only reason I’m telling you this is because I’m taking off my trousers now. And my prosthesis. It’s too hot and uncomfortable to keep them on all night. And going to sleep. Because I feel rather shit.”
“Right. Right. Of course.” I’m flustered too, and my face also burns. Whatever I expected Will to say, this was absolutely not it.
Never mind the obvious question: why does he only have one leg? I make a big effort to keep my mouth shut.
He’s pulling back the bedding as I unravel in my head.
And I swear, I’m doing my absolute best not to look at Will in this suddenly way too small and close room on a hot July’s night as he undresses, now sitting on the edge of the bed. From the corner of my eye, I can see Will has some sort of ultra-modern black prosthesis reaching nearly to his right knee as he steps out of his trousers. He efficiently takes off his prosthetic leg with liner, which he props against the oak bedside table, and promptly slides under the top sheet.
Meanwhile, I’ve bitten my lip so hard it’s probably bleeding, my mind racing with a million inappropriate questions, none of which I dare even examine, never mind ask. It’s not my business what happened, or why, or anything else.
“I’ll let you go to sleep now—” I tell him in a rush. “And I’ll come back later. I mean, does that sound creepy that I’ll come in when you’re sleeping? Oh God, sorry, I’m only making this worse.”
He ignores my blathering. Then he says something equally unexpected.
“It’s up to you, but I don’t mind that you’re here.”
I blink. What? “You don’t?”
