Page 175 of Not Over You

“What?”

Her voice is soft. “Thank you for saving me.”

I lean in. Touch my lips to hers. My fingers brush over the soft skin on her unscratched cheek. “Anytime, beautiful.”

CHAPTER 7

Hunter refuses to let me use the crutches they gave me at the clinic. Instead, he scoops me up and marches right up to the house. My roommate is away for the week, so there’s no one to explain all this to, thankfully.

I wiggle the key in the lock as he dips down so I can reach. I can’t help but giggle. The pain medicine made me a little loopy. “Hold still, will ya?”

“Give me that!” He shifts me around in his arms and takes the keys, which he very efficiently uses to unlock the door. “Nice place,” he mutters as he marches through the house. “Which one’s your room?”

“You could just put me on the couch…” I protest but we’re already halfway to the bedroom. “Last room on the right.”

He shoves the door open with his foot and carries me over to the bed. There’s nothing romantic about this, I have a big black walking cast on my leg. We’re covered in dirt. I’ve got scrapes all over me.

But... I’ll admit, I always loved it when he carried me to the bed.

I shake my head—the drugs are making my brain mushy.

Hunter is gentle as he arranges the pillows behind my back, and even puts some under my badly sprained ankle. He looks satisfied when he inspects his job. “Now, I need to feed you.”

“You don’t have—”

“What? You’re going to do it yourself?”

I shrug. “I guess you have a point.”

He pulls a blanket over my legs. I watch his strong arms flexing under his t-shirt. I can’t help but remember the many nights he spent with those arms around me in my bedroom back in Pismo Beach. Hot, intimate, amazing nights.

I feel a familiar heat beginning to stir in my core.

Hunter glances at me and his eyes have a knowing hunger in them. I’m guessing he feels it too.

What are we? I suddenly wonder.

We’re in some kind of dance of lust and emotional baggage. Or I am, at least. Lord only knows what Hunter is. Or wants.

He clears his throat, his face changes. A cool distant mask slides into place. He steps back. “Do you have food to cook?”

I raise my brows. “Um. Yeah. I do. But are you up to cooking?”

“I can cook. If that’s what you mean?”

I smile. “Spaghetti-O’s don’t count.”

He huffs, “I’ll have you know I cook real food all the time.”

I laugh a little too loudly. Damn that medication. I sound like a little girl—all silly giggles. “Well, you are a different man, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea. Now, what are you in the mood for?”

“Surprise me.”

“Right on. Can I get you anything before I retreat to the kitchen to do what you doubt I can do? Want your laptop for some YouTube or Netflix?”

“Not a bad idea. It’s on the coffee table.”

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