Page 35 of If You Were Mine
“Always,” he said with a sigh before closing the door behind him. He moved quickly around the front of the truck before getting in, and I didn’t see a wince on his face. He was healing, and I was grateful for that. But I hated that he didn’t take care of himself.
Of course, my lungs hurt, and I was slightly light-headed, so I couldn’t really complain too much considering I was in the same boat.
“Do we need to pick up Lucky?” he asked, his gaze on the road.
“He’s having a sleepover at Ivy’s tonight. Apparently, Ivy wants to play dog mom for a night and see if she’s ready for one on her own.”
“With how much she travels, I don’t know if that would be a good thing.”
“We could make it work, especially since she drives often. But you’re right, she isn’t quite sure yet.”
“And not every dog can be as good as Lucky.”
That made me grin. “He’s the best.”
We sat in silence as we made our way to my apartment. I hated this awkwardness. Things had always been different with us, even when he had just been my brother’s best friend. Now he held so much guilt, and I didn’t know what to do with it.
Before I could say anything though, we pulled into the back of the bakery, and he shut off the engine.
“I’ll walk you up.”
I swallowed hard, my hands tingling. “I’m a big girl. I can do that on my own.”
“You don’t have Lucky at home. I’m walking you up.”
With a sigh, I stomped my way upstairs with him following me. I didn’t know why this was so awkward, but maybe it would just be normal. Like the fact that he would be in my apartment. Alone. At night. With no dog as a chaperone.
Or maybe I was losing my mind.
“Can I get you some coffee? Or a baked good?” Not quite what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t help rambling. I didn’t know what he saw when he looked at my apartment. It wasn’t large nor was it my forever home. But then again, it was better than the little room I had at my grandparents’ house.
“Your house always smells like sugar and flour.”
“That wasn’t an answer to my question,” I said, my lips twitching.
“I could eat,” he said, surprising me. He slid his hands into his pockets, and I swallowed hard.
“Okay. Why don’t you go take a seat on the couch, and I will get you some cookies or something.”
“Or something,” he mumbled.
Not sure what he meant by that, I made a plate of blonde brownies, a couple of cookies, and a fruit tart I had made earlier. I was constantly practicing with recipes, and I was grateful that I had friends to hand them off to.
I quickly brewed two cups of coffee and made my way into the living room. He had a book in his hand as he laid on my couch. He had his hurt leg up on the ottoman, and I held back a wince. Because if he was showing any form of his supposed weakness, he had to be hurting.
“Are those tarts?” he asked, his eyes widening.
“I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere.”
His cheeks pinked, and I thought it was the cutest damn thing. “I’m not calling you a tart. But I will take whatever’s on that plate.”
“That I can do.”
I had set everything on a tray, and he had tried to get up to help, but I was quicker than he was and set everything down in front of us. He lowered his leg, and I took a seat beside him.
“Do you want me to massage your leg?” I asked, and he blinked.
“What?”
