Trying to remain professional, I grasp his jaw and turn it to the side, ordering. “Stop smiling, I need your face relaxed.”
He obeys and my eyes take in the injury on his face.
“Well,” I finally say after a minute of perusal. “Good news is that you don’t need stitches on your face.”
“What’s the bad news, then, Nurse?”
His hands creep up to lightly rest on my hips and I open my mouth to admonish him but there is a soft indulgent smile on his face that makes my heart flip over in my chest, and I have to clear my throat. “The bad news is that you might have a small scar along your jaw.”
He doesn’t flinch at the news, smiling nonchalantly. “A scar doesn’t bother me.”
I look down at him and wonder how someone so wickedly handsome is sitting in my bathroom.
The moment drags on for a little too long and I fidget, as is my habit, and try to step aside, only for him to press his thighs around my legs and hooking his ankles on the floor, so that I can’t escape.
“Tell me something, Nurse Alexandra—”
I swallow. “It’s Alex.”
His eyes light up, and I can feel his hand tightening on my hips. “All right, Alex. Why did you help me?”
I open my mouth and then snap it shut. Why did I help him?
I look at him. “You helped me first.”
I groan internally at how accusatory my tone sounds and his lips twitch. “So, you don’t have a habit of rescuing strays?”
“Are you a stray?” I counter and I can see the amusement flash in his green eyes.
“Maybe. Would you feed a stray?”
Shameless, shameless man.
I just rescued him, patched him up and now he’s demanding food?! Does it look like I’m running five star accommodations here?
And yet my protests all die on my tongue as I hear the rumble in his stomach and l remember how he was so badly injured when I found him. Even now, I can see the strain in his eyes that he’s hiding behind his smile, his hold on me not all that steady.
And my heart feels unsteady.
Without thinking, my hand goes to brush his hair from his eyes and he freezes at the gentle gesture. I immediately withdraw my hand, blushing. “Sorry.”
He watches me curiously, his head tilted, his eyes move up to my lips and then to my eyes staring intently. It makes my heart beat faster, not out of fear, but a sliver of excitement. I don’t understand this feeling so I tuck it away to analyze it later.
I clear my throat, hoping I sound dignified. “You’ll have to let me go if you want food.”
He stares at me and then his lips curve into that particular smile that I’m beginning to consider his most dangerous weapon.
“As you wish, mon chéri.”
He releases me and I stumble back a step before straightening up. “I—you need a shirt.”
My eyes track his ruined jeans that are doing little to hide those muscular legs, and I mumble, “And pants. Definitely pants.”
I hesitate before turning around and making my way to my bedroom. All of Dad’s clothes are still in the boxes that I brought over from his apartment. I haven’t had the time or the courage to sort through them. Even now, I stand before them, conflict burning in my heart.
A soft whisper of movement from behind me reveals that my guest has followed me.
“This is your room?”
He sounds interested and I frown. “Don’t come in here.”
But it doesn’t surprise me when he doesn’t listen. I’m still a little drunk from this evening so maybe that’s why my reactions are so slow or that there is no real heat in my voice even as he invades my personal space.
“It’s very small.”
I scowl, instantly insulted. “No, it’s not.”
He smirks. “It’s positively tiny.”
I bristle at his words. “Feel free to leave then.”
“Nah.” He grins as if he’s enjoying riling me up. “I think I’ll stay.”
I mutter something nasty under my breath and feel his eyes settle on my back as I kneel down and open up one of the boxes. I take out a carefully folded shirt and a pair of sweatpants and my hands tighten on them as I press them to my chest, unwilling to part with them. However, my guest needs them more than I do, especially considering that the heating in the apartment isn’t working and he might get sick.
“Here.” I hand him the clothes, deliberately not looking at them, a suffocating feeling in my chest.
He takes them from me, his tone light. “Ex-boyfriend?”
My jaw tenses. “No.”
I don’t offer any other explanation and maybe he senses my reluctance from my tone so he doesn’t pursue the topic. I straighten up. “You can change in here.”
I brush past him, feeling a little fragile at the idea that my father’s clothes will be worn by him. I don’t give him a chance to say anything and quietly close the door behind me with a small snick. Letting out a shuddering breath, I lean against the door, trying to steady my erratic heartbeat. My thoughts are scattered and I need to get myself under control. I’m behaving too rashly and I need to get a grip.
I move toward the small kitchen and open one of the cupboards to take out some coffee beans. If there is one thing I love, it’s coffee. My parents met at a coffee shop where my mother was a barista and before her untimely death when I was sixteen, my sweet natured mother had taught me the art of making coffee from scratch.
‘There’s nothing a good cup of freshly brewed coffee can’t fix, love,’ she used to tell me as she would grind the beans while I watched her from my seat at the kitchen counter.
I start preparing the coffee, the familiar process having a calming effect on me. The water is boiling when I hear the sound of the bedroom door opening and I can’t help but look over my shoulder and I freeze at the sight of the man, whom I’ve dubbed ‘the Frenchman’ in my mind, exit the room. The shirt is a long sleeved pullover which can function as a sweater as well and while it had been loose on my father, it’s a tight fit on him, each movement revealing the ripple of muscles concealed underneath. The sweatpants still look comfortable although his legs are long and muscular and their shape is obvious under the soft cloth.
“Thank you.” His words are sincere for the first time since I’ve met him and I duck my head in a silent nod. His sharp eyes shift to what I’m doing and I see the way his eyes widen imperceptibly. “Are you making coffee?”
I pour in the steamed milk over the freshly brewed espresso and pick up the two mugs. “I had a little too much to drink today.” He covers the distance between us in long strides and accepts the mug, as I continue. “It’s also very cold. The heating doesn’t work that well in here.”
I watch him look around the living room and I feel heat crawl up my neck as he takes in the broken television, the tattered couch which I’ve held together with the best of my ability and the coffee table which has an ancient phonebook tucked under one leg to keep it steady. My apartment is falling apart and it’s obvious. I have the strong urge to tell him not to look, to justify to him that it’s just temporary till I get back on my feet in a few years. But I have some level of pride left and I raise my chin defiantly and look at him, as if daring him to say something.