Then she immediately heads for the kitchen. “Let me go get you some ice.”
I call after her, “There should be some cold packs in the freezer already. We tend to get injured a lot in this house. And medicine in the cabinet next to the microwave, but if you can’t find any kind of anti-inflammatory, there’s some in the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom.”
With her gone, I reach for the button on my jeans and flick it open. I kick off my shoes, and slide my pants off with as little bending of my knees as possible.
When I see my knees, I curse. They’re already swollen, as I suspected.
I hear a high-pitched noise behind me and turn to find Dylan looking at the ceiling, holding out two ice packs, a glass of water, and some pills.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be . . .”
“I’m not naked, Dylan. You’ll know when I am.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I can’t exactly ice my knees with jeans on.”
Her eyes leave the ceiling and go to my legs, and she sucks in a breath. Then her eyes lift a little higher, to the growing bulge I can’t hide, and she exhales in a rush.
She’s embarrassed and shy for a moment, but then a change comes over her, determination in her expression, and she crosses to me.
“Sit,” she commands.
I do as she says, wincing at the twinge of pain in my knees.
She wraps the cold packs in kitchen towels that I hadn’t noticed draped over her arm, and then she makes me sit back against the armrest and situates the ice on my knees.
“I like Nurse Dylan,” I say. “She’s hot. And bossy.”
She shoves the bottle of pills in my face and says, “Shut up and take these.”
“You still mad at me for laughing?”
I shake out a few pills into my palm and grab the water.
“No, I’m mad at myself. “
I swallow quickly and ask, “Why?”
“Because I got you hurt. I’m supposed to be helping you, and instead I’m making things worse.”
I put the water aside, and with one well-placed pull, I’ve got her tumbling into my lap. The impact jostles my knees a little bit, but her flustered look is worth it.
“You’ve got a thing for pulling me into your lap, don’t you?”
“Hell yeah, I do.”
I slip a hand up her back and curl it around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer into my chest.
“What are you doing?”
“This morning I had my lesson; now it’s time for yours.”
Her cheeks flush. “A lesson in what exactly?”
Her wide-eyed, innocent look goes straight to my dick, and she can no doubt feel it vying for her attention at her hip.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Brenner. I’m not teaching you anything like that.”
I could be imagining it, but I think for a brief moment she looks disappointed. And f**k . . . I might be making a liar out of myself very soon.
“Lesson number one. Everything wrong in the world is not your fault.”
Her brows furrow.
“I know that.”
“No you don’t. You take everything on yourself. That protest at the shelter. When people weren’t listening, you thought it was your responsibility to make them. Matt getting arrested. I was there . . . I heard you apologizing again and again to him.”
“But he’s my friend, and he—”
“Is an adult who makes his own decisions.”
“But—”
“When I asked you about your breakup with Henry, you shared the blame. Like it was somehow your fault that he’s a f**king idiot. And now you’re apologizing to me, again for something I did. Not you.”
“But—”
“New rule. Every time you apologize, I get to shut you up.”
Her eyes widen. “And how are you going to do that?”
“I’ve got a few ideas.”
She presses her lips together tightly, like she’s worried she might just spontaneously apologize. I grin, enjoying the emotions playing across her face. Nerves. Curiosity. Indignation. Embarrassment.
For the first time in my life, I want to ask her questions, want to dig until I find the thoughts responsible for each of those expressions. Normally, I steer clear of questions. Getting to know a girl just complicates the whole exchange.
I promised Dylan simple. I convinced her that was what she needed, and now I’m starting to think it’s not at all what I want.
Chapter 16
Dylan
Needing a break from the intensity of being this close to him, I awkwardly climb off his lap and say, “I’m going to grab some pillows for you. Is it okay if I go in your room?”
“Go ahead,” he calls back.
I take in a calming breath and scale the stairs. My eyes flick to the restroom door where we kissed for the first time, and the back of my neck flashes with heat. I remember the way his hand had curled there, holding me against him, even though nothing could have made me move away in that moment. He’d done the same thing on the couch downstairs, and part of me had really hoped that was where he was going with that lesson. I blink and shake off the memory. But I can’t get the nerves to flee as I open his bedroom door. I don’t know what I expected to find . . . drug paraphernalia, condom wrappers, dirty clothes.
There’s none of that. The room is clean and neat. Even his bed is made. It’s simple, sparsely furnished with no real decorations, unless you count sports equipment, and a few Rusk mementos. He’s got four pillows on his bed, two on each side, and I grab them all. With them held tight to my chest, I breathe in the scent they carry, clean and masculine with just a little spice.
I take one last look around his room, and imagine how things might have gone differently if I’d followed him in here during the party. Would I ever have seen him again? Would that have been it? Or would that have just been the first of several times, like he’s implied?
I shake my head because I’m being stupid. While I’m up here imagining things that can’t be changed, he’s down there in pain and uncomfortable. I rush down the stairs and back into the living room to find him with his eyes closed. He’s removed the Rusk T-shirt he was wearing earlier, leaving him in just a white, fitted undershirt and his black boxer briefs. I swallow, square my shoulders, and walk up beside him. I drop all of the pillows on the ground but one, and then touch my fingers to his shoulders.
He looks exhausted and I say quietly, “Lean up.”
He plants his hands beside him on the couch and pulls himself a few inches forward. I settle the pillow behind him. I’m still adjusting it when he leans back onto it, so I end up leaning over him, one arm on either side of his head, trying to straighten it so he’s comfortable. I try not to think about how his head is even with my chest, but who am I kidding? It’s all I’m thinking about.