Page 56 of The Summer Show

“I’m a problem?”

He frowned. “Come stay at the hotel. If they don’t have a room, you can stay in mine.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Think about it.”

He waited while I returned my phone to my bag, and crouched for me to hop on his back again. I tried not to notice the way his chest and shoulders tensed and relaxed as he adjusted to the change in the terrain. I tried doubly hard not to notice the way my whole body was pressed up against his and the reaction I was having to the heat he was radiating.

I hated to admit it, but I never wanted this ride to end.

* * *

Nick must have gone to the hotel to sleep, but sometime between last night and two minutes ago, he had returned to Ana and Thanos’s place. His back was facing me and he was pouring coffee.

“Hey,” I said as I limped into the kitchen. Pain radiated from every pore in my body this morning. I needed a soak in a hot tub and a bucket of Ibuprofen.

Nick turned. There were two mugs on the counter. One was the mug I’d been using since I had arrived. The other read ROOFER—BECAUSE BADASS ISN’T AN OFFICIAL JOB TITLE. Definitely a Nick mug—or the Nick he used to be, if stories were to be believed. It was difficult to imagine him cracking jokes and laughing like it came easily to him.

His dark eyes connected with mine for a split second, then they went traveling along a southern path, drinking in my Beauty and the Beast nightgown, with Belle reading a book. His gaze burned as it explored.

Then his eyes snapped back up to my face as if the details had just now registered.

He abandoned the mugs and crossed the kitchen in a couple of long strides. His fingers lifted my chin and moved my face left then right, gently, as though I were made of fine china.

I knew how my face looked. The scrapes. The bruises. I looked like I’d kissed the ground and a wooden ladder—because I had. Last night we’d been walking in the dark, and the shadows had helped hide the damage. But the early morning sunlight kept no secrets.

“Who did this to you?” Anger simmered behind his words, giving them husky, ragged edges. The hand that wasn’t cupping my chin balled into a tense fist. His face hardened.

“Uh, you.”

He jerked back like he had touched a hot stove. “What?”

“Last night when you stopped me from winning Capture the Flag. I hit the ground, remember? With my face?”

“Shit.” He shoved his hand back through his hair and rubbed it with the zeal of a man trying to time travel by vigorously massaging his scalp. “I’m sorry. I screwed up. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was going for the opposite of that.”

I shook my head. My neck was one part of my body that didn’t hurt. “No need to be sorry. Bruises heal, and we were just playing a game. I bet everyone else is hurting today, too.”

“I don’t care about them.”

“Are you saying you care about me?” I said lightly.

“I feel responsible for you.”

That was a new one. I wasn’t sure what to say. “I’ve managed this long without you. I’m sure I’ll be fine if you feel less responsible for me.”

No reply. He gave me a dark look and went to the freezer. After several seconds of contemplating frozen goods, he grabbed a bag of spinach and offered it to me.

“I’m Popeye the sailor man,” I said.

The corner of his lip twitched slightly. The smile was in there somewhere, but something was blocking the exit.

I got it. I was schlepping around my own baggage. Baggage, of course, being my mother.

Nick Merrick looked gruff and beastly, like he could snap a spine with one hand, but the way he touched the frozen spinach to my face was gentle. His other hand brushed back my hair from my cheek. Or tried. A clump was stuck in place from dried drool.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice that was this side of a whisper.

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