by Kayt Miller
“Broken fibula and tibia.”
“Are those pins…?”
“It’s called an external fixator. The rods are inside, holding my bones in place so they’ll heal.”
I wince but try not to let him see because he looks rather pale now. “It must hurt. Let’s sit you down.” I point to one of the cushioned lounge chairs he’s got on his patio.
“I think I will rest. I’m a bit winded from the shock of seeing you.” He lowers himself into his chair and raises the leg with the brace. I search for something to put underneath it. Finding a small pillow on the ground, I set it beneath his knee, right above the metal contraption. “Thank you, Quinn,” he says laying his head back and sighing. “This last couple of weeks has been brutal.”
“I bet.” I push his hair away from his face and run my palm over his cheek. “I like the beard.”
“You do?” he asks, one eye open and peering up at me.
“I do. It’s sexy.”
“Sexy, eh?”
“Yep,” I say, popping the p.
“You’d better kiss me, then. If I’m so sexy.”
“Not before I brush my teeth.” And shower. “Mind if I go clean up? Then I’ll make you something to eat.”
“Aye. I’ll stay put.” He sounds drowsy. I bet my arrival and house tour is the most he’s done since his injury.
“Be right back.” I race back into the house, down the hallway, and back into his bedroom. Pulling my suitcase over to an out-of-the-way spot, I unzip it and grab my toiletry bag and a change of clothes. Searching the bathroom cupboards, I locate a towel and a cloth. Then I have the daunting task of figuring out how to use his fancy-ass shower.
When I think I’ve got one showerhead working with warm water, I strip down and step in. I moan at the feel of the water sluicing down my body, removing the airplane grime. I stand still, just relishing the water splattering over my tired muscles, relaxing me. I scrub my body and face, then wash and condition my hair until I’m clean. Using a plush towel, I dry myself, brush my teeth twice, and dress in comfy leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. I feel renewed. Folding up my dirty things, I lay them in my suitcase and hang the towel over a hook on the bathroom door.
When I head back outside, Cooke is snoring. “Poor baby,” I whisper as I touch his hair again. I make my way back into the house and start to scrounge through his cupboards and fridge. There’s not much to work with. He’s got eggs and bread, at least, so I scramble eggs and make toast. I’ll need to go to the store for him, get him all stocked up.
Carrying out his plate with a fork and a cloth napkin I found in one of the drawers, I nudge Cooke’s shoulder.
“What?” he snaps.
Oh, wow. Cranky. “I made you food, Cooke.”
I watch him settle back into his chair and fall back to sleep. No doubt he’s tired from the pain. It’s hard to sleep when you hurt.
I set his plate on the large outdoor dining table, then retrieve mine from the kitchen. Sitting on the lounge chair next to him, I eat my breakfast while he snores. I feel like I should wake him up so he can eat, but since I don’t know for sure, I stare at him some more. “Screw it.” I lean over and shake his shoulder.
“What the feck?” he says, opening his eyes. When they first see me, they pinch together in a scowl. Then, like a light bulb switching on, he smiles. “Love.”
“You’re grouchy when someone tries to wake you up.”
“I know. My apologies. I’m an ass when I don’t get enough sleep.”
“You weren’t when you were in Ames.”
“Blame it on my pain capsules. My sleep is out of sorts.”
“I can see that.” I look at his leg, then back at his face. “I made you eggs and toast, but it’s probably cold now. Let me warm it up.”
“No, it’s fine. I need to eat something.”
Picking up the plate, I set it on his stomach. “I’ll reheat it.”
“No.” He takes a bite and smirks. “Delish.”
“Liar.” I giggle. “I need to get some groceries for you. Your cupboards are bare.”
“I get them delivered. I haven’t placed an order in a while. I can do that later.”
“Oh. Okay.” That sounds like a nice service. “I should do that. It’d keep me from impulsively buying goodies like ice cream and cookies now that I have a little extra money.” I laugh again. “I could lose a ton of—”
“No, Quinn.” He’s stopped chewing. “You’re perfect just as you are.”
Chapter Forty-Four
I’ve been at Cooke’s for two days. So far, it’s a romance-free zone. In that time, I learned how to order groceries, cleaned both his downstairs bathrooms, changed his sheets, cooked five meals, and did his laundry. All while Cooke slept or lounged outside on his patio. I take that back—he left for two hours yesterday after a black car picked him up. He waved at the door, saying, “Off to physio, love.”
I waved and smiled. Then, as soon as the door shut, my smile fell. I’m starting to feel a little sorry for myself. All I’ve done is housework. Heck, I haven’t even slept in the bed with him because I’m so worried I’ll bump into his metal exoskeleton and hurt him. The thing is… where is his family? I know he has a mom and a sister. Where are they? I sure haven’t heard from them. I’ve no clue if he’s got a father in his life. He doesn’t mention him. And what about his teammates? They haven’t stopped by. Hell, no one has even called him. I can’t figure it out.
Then there’s the fact that Cooke barely notices me. He literally sleeps all day long. I’m sure it has everything to do with those pain meds. I know they can make a person drowsy.
I’m not sure what I expected. I knew I’d be here to help him, but please. I also thought there’d be some cuddles, kisses, and cozy time in front of the telly. Heck, he refuses to watch TV. He says it gives him a headache. Gah! Nope. There’s nothing romantic about flying in to be with Cooke during this trying time.
Okay, maybe I’m being unfair. It hasn’t been completely unromantic. We’ve shared a few kisses here and there, but it’s weird. I don’t feel like a girlfriend right now. I’m more like a nursemaid. Yes, I wanted to make sure he was okay, and if that meant I’d be cooking and cleaning, then so be it. But now that I’m on the third day of my six-day stay, I’m getting a little irritable. I mean, I’m in London, for crying out loud. A place I’ve never been before and may never see again. I spent thousands on this trip, and all I’ve seen is the inside of Cooke’s house.
Mind you, it’s a very nice house.
I need to stop complaining. I can make this work. It’s not like there’s nothing else to do here. I could take a swim. Except I didn’t bring my suit because I didn’t think he’d have one in his house. I could throw on my shorts and a tee and swim, but I’m half afraid to ask him if it’s okay. His mood, well, it isn’t great. That first morning when he was a bit snappy was just a prelude to every morning here at Chez Cooke. I could attribute that to the pain pills as well, though. I remember when my middle brother broke his leg in high school. They put him on some pretty potent pain meds, and he got all squirrely and cranky. He was high and happy one minute, surly and bitchy the next. I assume that’s what’s happening with Cooke. At least I hope that’s all it is.
Sighing, I dish out a bowl of chili I made from scratch. Dad’s recipe. I carry the bowl, spoon, and some crackers out to the patio. He’s asleep again.
“Cooke?” I say close to his ear.
I must startle him, because before I know it, his arms are flailing around, hitting the bowl of hot chili. My first instinct is to keep it from burning him, so I fumble with it until it’s upturned and on top of my shirt. “Oh, fuck.” I almost scream but do my best to hold it inside.
“Bloody hell, Quinn. Why’d you wake me?”
Because it’s lunchtime. But I don’t say it. I can’t due to the fact that my lip is quivering. I concentrate on making it stop. I quickly turn away from him and release the bowl. It falls to the ground, breaking
apart into a million pieces and splattering chili everywhere.
“Jesus, you just dropped the bowl! What’s wrong with you?”
He’s only being an asshole because he’s hurting. It’s not him.
I’m chanting that to myself, but it’s not working. I slowly turn around to face him, the tears already falling. Without a word, I lift my chili-soaked shirt so he can see my red skin. “I-It was burning me.”
“Love?” Cooke’s voice sounds panicked. “You’re burned.”
In an attempt to keep myself from completely losing it, I drop the shirt. “I’m fine. I’ll… I’ll take care of it.” I saw a first aid kit when I was cleaning the other day, so I turn and race into the house and down the hall to the master bathroom. When I spot the kit, I search it for any kind of burn relief. Luckily, there’s a small packet of aloe. Lifting my shirt, I end up with chili on my face and hair, but it can’t be helped. Tearing open the package, I squirt the cool gel onto my chest and stomach and rub it gingerly. It hurts, but I don’t think I’ll die, and the aloe helps.
“Quinn?” Cooke says as he appears at the bathroom door. He blinks, then looks at the first aid kit. “How did you know where the aid box was, love?”
“I saw it when I cleaned the bathroom.”
“You cleaned the bathroom?” he asks, scanning the room.
“Both bathrooms on this level. I also changed the sheets, did your laundry, and started on the kitchen.”
“Darling.” He chuckles. “That was unnecessary. I have a cleaner. She comes in every Wednesday.”
That’s tomorrow. “Oh.” God, I feel stupid.
He’s laughing harder now, and it makes me want to punch him in the nuts. “That’s all I’ve done since I got here, Cooke. You didn’t notice?”
How could he? He’s either been out on the patio or in bed. His bed with fresh, clean sheets. Sheets that I hung out on the line, right next to his lounge chair, so they smell extra nice.
He suddenly stops laughing. “I’m sorry, no.”
Yeah, how could he know?
I’m not sure what to say right now. I’d like to tell him off, but he’s hurt, and it’s not like he asked me to come. Or to clean. I did that all on my own. So I need to let it go.
Taking air into my lungs slowly, I release it just as gradually. I need to calm myself before I say something I’ll regret and don’t mean. I think I just need to get out of the house for a bit. “I’m going to go out for a while. I’d like to see some of London before I go home. Do you think you’ll be okay here by yourself?”
He blinks as he stares at me. “Christ,” he mutters. “I’m a fucking git.”
“No you’re not. You’re hurt. You need to rest and recuperate.”
“I’ve been a terrible host, Quinn.”
“You didn’t invite me. I just showed up. Don’t feel badly because you aren’t able to show me the sights. I’m more than capable of figuring things out on my own. I flew here by myself. I can see London by myself.” I grab my chili-soaked shirt. If I throw it in the laundry now, I might be able to save it. “Will you be okay for a while on your own?”
“Sure. Of course.” He’s still just looking at me like he can’t figure out what he should do.
Chapter Forty-Five
London is as amazing as I imagined it would be. And it wasn’t hard to get to the heart of it from Twickenham. The bus practically goes from Cooke’s street all the way to the center of the city. I, however, hop off the bus at Hyde Park. There are some cute shops all around the park, as well as pretty gardens, and since it was my first outing, I decide to take in the sights. I buy some fish and chips from a street vendor and sit on a park bench, watching and listening to people. There are lots of English accents, but there are others too. Sitting in the park is like experiencing a mini slice of the world.
After my lunch, I continue walking the through neighborhoods around the park. I stop and pick up some small souvenirs for myself and my friends and am happily surprised to find one boutique that carries the most enviable collection of nail varnish—or nail polish as I know it—I’ve ever seen. Since I neglected to pack any, I decide to buy red, white, blue, and silver along with remover, clippers, a nail file, and clear coat. I’ve already decided what I’ll do with the polish, and it has everything to do with England and Cooke Thompson.
I notice several tour companies that use double-decker buses. I’m tempted to take one of those tours, but I feel like I need to get back to Cooke. Now that I know how to get here, I can do that tomorrow. Searching for a bus stop, I find one only a block away and wait for my bus to take me back to Cooke.
When I step into the house, it’s dark and quiet. Did he leave? I hope he didn’t get upset and leave, or worse, fall and injure himself.
“Cooke?” I set my purse on top of the kitchen island and decide to check the bedroom first. “Not here,” I whisper to myself. He must be on the patio.
As quietly as I can, I push open the screen door and step onto the patio. “Cooke?” I say just loud enough.
“Here, love.”
Moving around the corner, I stop in my tracks at the sight before me. Cooke is sitting at his patio table, but it doesn’t look like it did before. Now it’s covered in a white cloth with candles glowing in the center. It’s set with pretty dishes and silverware.
“What’s this?” I ask, stepping closer.
“It’s my way of saying thank you and I’m sorry all at once.”
Our eyes meet. “You don’t need to do either thing.”
“Quinn.” When I reach him, he wraps his arms around my waist and says, “I’ve been angry and an arsehole to my friends and family since my injury. Hell, I ran off my mum and sister after two days. They said they couldn’t stand the sight of me after I treated them poorly.” Cooke chuckles. I don’t. “I’m a broody, selfish bastard since I was released from the hospital—long before you surprised me, love. My mates are staying far away from me as well. And I don’t blame any of them. But then you knocked on my door, and for some reason, I felt better. At ease. So much so, I slept for the first time in a week.”
“Cooke.” I run my fingers through his hair. “I’m glad.”
“So, that’s about all I’ve done since you stepped foot in my door, and I’m sorry. It’s your first time abroad, and all you’ve done is work those pretty fingers to the bone.” Taking one of my hands, he brings it to his mouth and kisses it.
“I haven’t. I came to do what I could to help.”
“I don’t want my girlfriend to fly across the ocean to clean my toilet, love. I want you to sit with me. Cuddle. Take a hired car and sightsee. We’ll do that tomorrow. I’ve already arranged it. My sister is coming along to do things I can’t with this blasted brace.”
“Cooke, no. I’m fine going alone. I figured out—”
“No.” His tone sounds cranky again. I pull away slightly.
“Yes,” I say in a similar tone. “The bus takes me right into the center—”
“Please?” Crap. He’s got puppy dog eyes. “Allow me and Saffron to escort you.”
“Your sister’s name is Saffron?”
“Aye. We call her Saffie, though.”
“Okay. If you really want to do that. I don’t want you to do anything to jeopardize your leg, though. Promise?”
“Promise. Now.” He claps his hands together and turns to face the table. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I’m extremely peckish.”
He smiles at my use of his terminology. “Well, then,” he says, lifting a domed silver lid that sits in the center of the table, “dinner is served.” His smile lights up his face. “Shepherd’s pie. One of my favorite traditional English meals.”
I lean forward and peek at a square casserole dish. The top of the contents looks white and fluffy. “What is it?”
“The top is mashed potatoes.”
“Yum,” I hum with approval.
“Beneath that is layered, shredded meat with onion and other veg.” He loo
ks up at me expectantly. “Good?”
“It sounds wonderful, Cooke. Did you make it?”
“I called the pub up the road. They delivered.”
Sitting next to him, I point to the silver lid. “Is that silver from the pub?”
“It was my gran’s. I wanted to make it look romantic.”
I scoot closer to him. Leaning in, I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Cooke. It’s very romantic.” I swear he blushes, but I can’t be sure since the sun is setting.
Cooke places a piece of the shepherd’s pie on my plate, and I wait for him to serve himself. When I know he’s ready, I lift my fork and take my first bite. Closing my eyes, I moan. “Mm, good.”
Cooke’s staring at me. When he sees I’m looking back at him, he smiles brightly. “I love the sexy noises, love. You mean it? You like it?”
“I love it. Thank you for giving me a taste of one of your favorite things.” There’s still so much I don’t know about Cooke Thompson.
“Before you leave, we’re going to know a lot more about each other, Quinn. I promise you that.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Sitting in my seat on the plane, I’m doing my best to calm down. I’ve started to pick away at my nail polish, a nervous habit. The Union Jack design of the British flag I painted on my thumbnail is nearly gone on my right hand. I’ve been beyond emotional since I woke up this morning. I was dreading the ride to the airport with Cooke because, honestly, I don’t want to leave. I want to stay. But I can’t. I’ve got responsibilities at home that include school, my new apartment with Tayler, and my job. And it’s not like Cooke asked me to stay. He didn’t. Why would he? We’re not anywhere near ready for something as serious as me moving to London. It still hurts, though. It feels like my heart is cracking and crumbling, the pieces falling and landing in my stomach. It’s why the thought of eating makes me physically ill. Hell, I may never eat again.
I sniffle thinking about this last week. Sure, at first it wasn’t great, but after Cooke woke up—literally and figuratively—he became the perfect host. He did as promised, inviting his sister, Saffie, along on our tour of London. I was nervous to meet her, but it only took a minute to see that she was funny, sweet, and kind. Plus, she didn’t take any shit from her brother. Saffie spent much of our tour telling me what a twat he was after the surgery. “He ran us all off, the git.”