My stomach did little summersaults. I’d often wondered what it would be like to be in his arms. Even feeling scared out of my mind and trying to get away from him wasn’t enough to keep me from realizing that if felt damned amazing.
“Show me,” he murmured.
“No.”
“I will rip that top right off your body, Elle,” he warned.
I looked up at him. “Please, Spencer.”
“I know the look of a wounded bird,” he whispered. “You don’t look wounded, darlin’. You look downright beaten.” The southern twang in his tone took away any kind of sting I might have felt at his honest words.
I slumped against him with a shaky breath releasing from within me.
His arm tightened, supporting me, and for several long moments, I let him hold me. I let his strength wrap around me, and I let myself believe that everything would be okay. Hell, being in his arms like this, I almost thought it was true.
“You can talk to me,” he murmured.
I pulled away and stood there debating. It didn’t take long because the truth was holding all this inside was too hard. I felt like the glass out in the kitchen, ready to shatter at any moment. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I felt alone and scared. Spencer was the closest person I had as a friend.
Yes, I realize how utterly sad that made me.
I was wearing a white button-up shirt. It was pretty standard and professional-looking. The sleeves were rolled just slightly so they didn’t get messy while making the bread. Normally, I would have them all the way to my elbows, but not today. I had bruises on my forearms.
Silently, I unbuttoned the shirt all the way down to my navel. I was dressed in a white tank top beneath my shirt so nothing of my body was overly exposed.
Once again, Spencer shifted, blocking me with his body so if someone happened to walk in, they wouldn’t see my state of undress. They would only get treated to the view of his broad back.
Without hesitation, I slid the shirt down, revealing my shoulder, upper arm, and back. He sucked in a breath between his lips. I didn’t bother to look down at the purple marks marring my skin. I already knew what they looked like and how they got there. I didn’t need to see them to relive the memory.
“Who did this to you?” Spencer said, his voice hard and cold.
I slid my shirt back up and worked on the buttons, unsure where to begin with my answer.
“Elle,” he said, reaching out to touch me, but he stopped. His hand hovered just above me, like he wasn’t sure where he should touch.
“I’m scared, Spence,” I admitted, my voice shaking. “I don’t know what to do.”
The muscles in his jaw locked up, protruding out the corners of his face. He looked angular and, frankly, a little mean.
“You tell me. I’ll make this right.” His voice was so sincere that I believed him.
“I don’t think you can.”
His hovering hand settled, wrapping once more around the back of my neck. Perhaps he thought that was a safe zone because he could see I wasn’t bruised there.
Or maybe he knew touching me there felt so damn good.
“I damn well will,” he vowed.
Some laughter drifted in from outside the door, and I glanced at the forgotten blob of dough on the counter beside us. “This really isn’t a good place to talk,” I said.
He made a frustrated sound.
“Can we talk after work?” I asked tentatively. I didn’t really know what his personal life was like. I had no idea if he had other obligations.
His shoulders relaxed a little. “Yeah. Of course we can.”
“I don’t know what time you get off,” I said, moving away from him. I loved his close proximity, but I couldn’t allow myself to lean on him too much. I needed to stand on my own two feet. “I actually don’t know much about you,” I added.
“Not much to tell,” he said.
“You must work long hours.” I moved back toward the bread, hoping the dough hadn’t begun to dry out already. I picked it up and flipped it over to knead it some more. It seemed like Spencer was always here. Here when I got here, and I’d seen him a couple times as I was leaving the building when my day was over.
“I’ll be available when you get off.”
I pounded the dough and a wave of dizziness came over me. I swayed on my feet.
“Whoa,” he said, reaching out to steady me.
Marla, the kitchen manager, appeared in the doorway.
“Elle?” she asked. “Is everything okay?”
“She’s not feeling well,” Spencer answered for me. “I think she needs to go home.”
Marla came farther into the room, her eagle-eyed gaze taking in my face. “You certainly don’t look like you feel well.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not wanting to inconvenience the staff. “I’ll be fine.” The last thing I needed was to lose this job. I’d work so hard and sacrificed so much to get here.
She waved her hand. “You’ve never missed a day since you started here. Go home. Rest.”
“But the first family will need dinner tonight.” I protested.
“And they will get it. But if you are ill, you shouldn’t be preparing their food anyway.”
I wanted to tell her what was making me sick wasn’t contagious, but I didn’t want to explain.
“I already gave Mark the completed menu for next week’s dinner party. He’s ordering the items we need this afternoon.”
“I have every confidence that you missing half a day of work will not mess up your tightly run kitchen in the least. Now go on home.” She pointed to the door with her thumb.
I wiped my hands on a nearby white towel. Relief chased away the worst of my anxiety. At least this way I could see Jack and be with him all day. I would know he was safe. “Thank you.”
“If you’re still ill tomorrow, call in and let me know.”
“I will.” I promised.
Marla turned her attention to Spencer and a twinkle came into her eye. “Down here stealing cookies again, are you?”
He grinned, a dimple on either side of his lips. “Gotta have my sugar.”
Marla chuckled. “I think I’ll send an entire tin upstairs with you. That way all the others can have some sugar, too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled.
“There you go with that southern charm,” she called on her way to presumably get a tin full of cookies.
She’d forgotten I was here already. I didn’t blame her. Spencer had a way of taking all the attention in a room.