Page 38 of Seaside Cowboy's Fairy Tale

“Please sit down.” He helped her get up and led her to the faded-green armchair that matched the lumpy sofa. “I want you to promise me you’ll rest while I bring your things from the car.”

She rolled her eyes but nodded. “I promise.”

He had to have run because he reappeared soon with the duffel bag containing the things he’d bought for her in the hospital gift shop—toiletries, the fanciest shampoo and body wash he could find there, and an item that particularly filled her with tenderness, a teddy bear holding a heart stamped with the wordsget well soon.She’d discarded the crusty bloodstained T-shirt and shorts she’d taken on the fated voyage, and he’d bought her a new T-shirt and shorts at the gift shop, too. Guessed her size and everything.

He dropped the bag on the floor. “Is it okay if I open the blinds?” He stepped to the window. “To let the sunlight in?”

She blinked. The windows probably still had those dirty streaks she was going to get to—eventually. Unless Irene’s cleaning crew had taken care of them, too. “Um, okay.”

He opened the blinds, the windows sparkled, and Rachel did a mental fist pump.

“I’d offer you something to drink. But I don’t have many things in the fridge.” And whatever she did have probably turned moldy already. She swallowed hard.

“Um, I’d better confess something—I cleaned it and filled it with things I thought you’d like after I cleaned the apartment. I did ask for Ms. Bruzlin’s advice. So if you’d like something to eat or drink, there’s orange juice, apple juice, grape juice, sparkling water, chocolate milk—”

Her jaw dropped, and she leaned forward. “Wait what—whaaat? You did what?”

He shoved his hands into his fancy black slacks’ pockets. “I hope I didn’t overstep.”

“Hold on. Rewind, please.” She waved her good hand in the air, gesturing a backward replay motion. She still couldn’t believe her ears. Her wound wasn’t infected, so she couldn’t be having audible hallucinations, right?

“I hope it’s okay that I filled the refrigerator.”

She picked her jaw from the shampooed carpet. “No, the second part.”

“That I cleaned the apartment? Why do you look like, I don’t know, you saw a tiger in here?” He stepped toward her.

“If I saw a tiger in my apartment, I’d be far less surprised.” Her brain must be sluggish because she had difficulty processing this. “You cleaned my apartment. Like in using your hands, you—yourself—cleaned my apartment.”

He nodded. “I wore rubber gloves, but yes, that’s how it’s done.”

She did know how cleaning worked—obviously! But who could imagine this fashionable, clean-shaven, expensive-smelling man in a suit that cost more than her monthly salary—correction, probably two months’ salary—scrubbing her floor? “I appreciate it very much.” Though, that meant he’d seen how she lived, didn’t it? Yikes. Heat scorched her ears. “But why?”

“The doctor said you shouldn’t overwork your injured arm.”

“No, I mean, why didn’t you hire cleaners to do all this?” She studied him, seeing him in a new light. When they’d met, she’d penned him as a rich, spoiled snob. Were those prejudices?

“How about I bring us something to drink and explain some things you don’t know about me?” He moved the side table to her side and brought one of the only two chairs in her apartment.

“O–okay. I’ll take a glass of orange juice, please.” Her mind whirled. His unexpected gesture brought him closer to her, and it was dangerous.

The hospital stay already weakened her defenses. Not the injury per se, but how he’d stayed by her side while she’d been there. And when he’d left for what she’d presumed was to take care of things at his work, he’d cleaned her apartment to welcome her home and fed her mice.

Nibbles squeaked on her shoulder as if to confirm it, but just in case, she’d better ask. “You took care of my pets, as well, didn’t you?”

“Of course. My experience with mice is limited to getting barn cats to hunt them—no offense to your little friends. But I believe I did well.” He handed her a glass of orange juice and placed a second one on her table.

She took the cold, smooth glass with her left hand. “You did an excellent job.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked to restrain them as she bowed her head and sipped the sweet tangy liquid. She wanted to hug him and stay in his embrace forever, and she wasn’t even the hugging type.

Or maybe she’d learned not to be a hugger because nobody wanted her hugs when she’d been growing up. Nobody held her when she’d cried. Nobody worried when she’d been hurt.

Besides some help from Irene, Rachel wasn’t used to kindness and didn’t know how to deal with a guy who not only looked like a magazine cover model but also was capable of surprisingly kind gestures. If he’d filled her apartment with flowers, it would’ve meant less than him cleaning the place. And especially him doing it himself.

She could resist an arrogant, selfish snob. But how was she supposed to resist this man? Maybe she wouldn’t have to. Once he heard about what he could consider her betraying him, he’d leave on his own. Hiding a grimace, she thwacked her half-full glass onto the table.

He took a seat, drank some of his orange juice, then set it beside hers, and clasped her hands in his, gently, careful not to bother her injured arm. “I wasn’t born into riches. I come from humble beginnings.”

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