Page 27 of Bitter Sweet Heart

He raises his hands in the air. “I don’t want no trouble.”

“Too fucking bad, ’cause you’re in a heap of it.”

The guy who tried to take a swing at me manages to get up on one knee, huffing and wheezing. He struggles to his feet and mumbles something about fucking me up, but his skinny friend grabs him by the shoulder. “Marty, man, we should get out of here.”

I pull my phone out of my pocket and start snapping photos.

The big guy lunges at me and basically runs right into my fist. It’s almost comical the way he stumbles back, again, and this time knocks over both of his friends. The three of them struggle to right themselves.

“I’m calling the cops,” I warn.

They scramble to their feet and rush down the street,Hank’s Automotive Repairin big red letters across the guy named Marty’s shoulders.

“What a bunch of fucking idiots.” I turn back to the woman, who has managed to pick herself up off the sidewalk.

One side of her hair is tucked behind her ear now, so I can see half of her face.

Clover.

Professor Sweet.

I try to catch her eyes. “Hey, it’s Maverick. Are you okay, Professor?”

She nods once, obviously shaken, clutching the front of her robe as her eyes dart around.

“I’m gonna help you clean this up, okay? Are you hurt at all?”

“I-I don’t think so. Just . . . unnerved.”

She exhales a tremulous breath but doesn’t move as I right the garbage can and pick up the bag that fell out. Then I collect all the discarded papers and empty Quaker Oatmeal packets and put them back in the recycle bin.

She’s still missing her bunny slipper. So I grab that and kneel in front of her, tapping the top of her foot. “Just lift an inch, okay?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Her voice is soft and breathy.

When she lifts her foot, her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. The contact is jarring, sending a wave of goose bumps flashing over my skin.

She slides her bare foot into her bunny slipper, and as soon as it meets the ground, she removes her hand from my shoulder. I rise slowly, keeping my head down. “I’d like to walk you to your door and make sure you get inside safely. Is that okay, Professor?”

“Um . . . I think . . . I think that would be okay.”

It sounds more like a question than a statement without any certainty or ease behind it. “You’re safe with me. I promise. But if you would prefer I stay here, on the sidewalk, I can absolutely do that. I’m worried, though, because you’re shaking, and I feel like maybe you’re a little rattled and you need a minute to process.”

She looks down and lifts one of her hands, the tremor visible even in the inky darkness. She turns her hand faceup, and I get a load of her palm, which is missing a layer of skin at the fleshy part near her thumb. “I must have gone down harder than I realized,” she whispers.

“I think you did. Do you trust that you’re safe with me?” I ask again.

“Those men could have hurt you.”

“They could have, but it would have given you time to get inside. And I play hockey, remember? I’m used to taking a beating. You, not so much.” I give her a gentle smile. “Do you live on your own? Do you have a roommate? Or a boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?”

“Who lives with you? Is there someone else inside who will make sure you’re okay and taken care of?” When we hooked up back in August, she didn’t have a boyfriend. But that doesn’t mean things haven’t changed since.

“Oh. No. My best friend lives in the apartment above mine, though.”

“Okay. That’s good. Do you want to call her?”

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