by Gwyn McNamee
He trails off and watches me expectantly.
Say something! Don’t leave him hanging like this.
I manage a tight smile and wring my hands together in front of me. “I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t invite you to go dancing.”
As soon as the words come out, I clamp my hand over my mouth, wishing I could take them back. My verbal diarrhea has reached epic proportions, and heat floods my face and neck.
Did you really just say that to a guy in wheelchair, Dani? Really?
His eyes widen slightly and I want to crawl into a hole and die. I look away and am tempted to get up and run out of here as fast as my Sergios can carry me, but then, he bursts out laughing, his entire body shaking and he reaches out to pull my hand away from my mouth.
I dare a quick glance at him and find him grinning at me. “Wow, look at you, already making jokes, huh?”
What the fuck kind of a reaction is that? Why the hell is he laughing?
He pulls my hand up to his mouth and presses his lips to my palm.
“Relax, Danika, just because I can’t walk doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good joke. And, for the record, I would have said yes.”
“Huh? Said yes to what?”
He smiles again and squeezes my hand. “To dancing. I play basketball. I’m sure I could figure out the dancing thing, too.”
His reaction helps me release the breath I’ve been holding, and I try to calm the churning in my stomach. I look into his unfairly handsome face and just can’t avoid asking it. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He sighs and releases my hand before running his back through his hair. “I don’t know, honestly. It didn’t come up at my office, or at dinner. I knew you couldn’t see my chair from where you were standing in my office, and I beat you to the restaurant and was already in the booth. It isn’t really something you tell someone in a text message.” He pauses and drops his hands onto his lap. “And, frankly, I was worried about what your reaction might be. This is the first time I’ve been interested in someone since the accident.”
Accident. The word sends chills down my spine before I even know what happened. Whatever it was, it must have been violent and awful for him to end up like this. “What happened?”
When he closes his eyes and drops his head back, I fear he isn’t going to answer me.
Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have asked.
Just as I suck in my breath to apologize for being so intrusive, he drops his head forward and meets my eyes again.
“Car accident…almost three years ago. I was in Europe, skiing with my sister, Star. I took her there as a graduation gift. She had just finished getting her nurse practitioner license. Skye, her twin, was supposed to come with us but she ended up ditching the trip to be with some guy. Our third day there, we were driving back to our lodge and a semi jackknifed on the road. I couldn’t swerve to avoid it. We were on a mountain pass and there was a giant cliff on the other side.”
A picture forms in my mind of a dark, narrow, winding mountain pass—those roads are terrifying enough without envisioning a giant semi-trailer barreling at you. I try to hide my reaction, but a shudder runs through me and I know he notices because he winces slightly. “The trailer hit our SUV and pushed it through the guardrail. We rolled down into the ravine. I lost consciousness at some point and don’t remember much, which is probably a good thing,” he says, glancing down at his hands clenched in his lap.
My eyes are burning with tears, but I refuse to cry right now.
Pull yourself together!
I shake my head and wipe at my eyes while he’s not looking at me. When he glances back up, I notice a sheen in his eyes too and it makes my stomach lurch into my throat.
“I was in a coma for almost two weeks. When I woke up, I was in a hospital in Germany…” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “…and my whole family was there to tell me my sister was dead.”
A gasp escapes me before I can stop it and the tears that have been threatening finally fall. He gives me a sad smile, and I can only imagine how much talking about this must rip his fucking heart out. I want to climb onto his lap and hold him but that would probably be inappropriate, given my actions today.
“I’m so sorry.” I manage to eke the words out in between sobs and when I wipe my eyes again, I see tearstains on his face too. He nods, never taking his eyes off me.
“In addition to lots of broken bones and lots of cuts and gashes, I underwent several back surgeries while I was there. I won’t bore you with all the medical shit. My spine was partially crushed, but because it wasn’t severed and the injury was so low, I’m actually pretty lucky.”
“What do you mean?” How can someone call themselves lucky when they’re paralyzed?
“I have what’s referred to as an incomplete spinal cord injury and it’s at the base of my spine, which basically means I still have some feeling in my legs and have very minimal movement of them, but not enough that I can really control them and I’ll never walk again. I work with a personal trainer who is also a physical therapist almost every day to help keep myself in as good of shape as I can.”
Just thinking about all that sounds horribly painful. “Holy shit. How long were you in the hospital for?”
“Almost six months. The hospital I was at is one of the world’s leading treatment centers for spinal cord injuries. I let them do everything they could for me before I came home.”
Jesus. I can’t even imagine what he’s been through.
“That is a long time to be away from home.”
He nods and smiles, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. “It was. Before the accident, I was engaged.”
My inner green-eyed monster appears out of nowhere at the thought of him marrying someone. My lunch tries to make an appearance and I clench my hands into fists on my lap.
“Were? What happened?”
He shrugs. “I guess it was all just too much for her. We had been together almost four years and were supposed to get married that spring. We had a house, and a dog,” he says, looking at Princess, who has made her way back over to us and jumped up on the couch next to me, “and she flew over to see me immediately after the accident. She stayed for a week, but had to go back for work. She made it over a couple more times in the next two months, but somehow, I knew she wouldn’t be back when she left that last time. Things had changed between us, and she didn’t know how to deal with everything. Hell, I didn’t either. At least I got to keep Princess.”
At the sound of her name, she leaps down off the couch and jumps up into his lap. A true smile appears on his face for the first time in this conversation, and seeing him doting on that damn tiny, girly dog has me smiling, too.
Jesus, he’s a total softy.
He turns that killer smile on me. “So, are you ready to run screaming yet?”
My smile must falter because his expression changes rapidly. “I was just joking,” he says, placing Princess back on the couch, “but seriously, if this has all been too much for you and you want to skip dinner, I totally understand. It was kind of a dick move for me to spring this on you when I’m on my home turf.”
Flustered by his directness, I shake my head while I try to collect my thoughts. This is a truly gorgeous, funny, sweet, filthy-mouthed man who wants to cook dinner for me.
Of course you are staying! What the hell is wrong with you for even considering leaving?
“No, I don’t want to leave. You promised me dinner.”
Grinning at me, he turns toward the kitchen. “If you are staying, I’m putting you to work.”
Following me into the kitchen, the click-click-click of her heels on the hardwood floors is hard to ignore. I have a feeling she may be taking those off soon. I glance over my shoulder to find her leaning against the doorframe, her eyes wide and jaw practically on the floor as her eyes sweep the room.
“Holy shit. This looks like a professional restaurant kitchen…if all the chefs were midgets.” Her eyes flicker
to mine, and she slaps her hand over her mouth again.
I want to fuck with her and pretend her comment offended me, but I can tell she’s really worried about it. In all truth, I find her apparent inability to process what she says before she says it refreshing and endearing. It means she’s always pretty honest and she doesn’t take the time to create a lie in her head before words tumble from those pouty lips. That will be important if this relationship is going to go anywhere.
You’re just lucky she’s still here. Not telling her was a real dick move and she has every right to be pissed.
Grinning at her, I run my hand along the island countertop. “Yeah, I had this whole place custom built for me. I knew I couldn’t return to my house when I came back to the States. It would have cost a ton, been a pain in the ass, and who knows if I would have even wanted to stay there—too much history. Gabe had already acquired the other half of this floor, so he made some calls and made sure I got this place quickly so work could start making it completely accessible. I spent a few months at my mom’s before I moved in here.”
She visibly relaxes when I fail to react to her comment and leans her hip against the counter that is way too low for her. I motion to her four-inch fuck-me pumps and smile at her. “You know, you would probably be a lot more comfortable in here if you took those things off.”
She glances down at them and raises her eyes to me, embarrassment on her face. “Sorry, I have freakishly long legs as it is, but with these on, I am more like a giraffe. I should really stay away from heels.” Reaching down, she slides them off and sets them down near the doorway before turning back to me.
“I couldn’t disagree more. You look hot as hell with those on. They make your mile-long legs look even longer; I can barely take my eyes off them.”
Blushing, she eyes me curiously. “How tall are you, anyway?”
I’m busy filling a large pot with water at the sink, but I glance over my shoulder and shrug. “Six-threeish.”
At least I used to be.
“No fucking way! Well, I guess your dad was a pretty big guy.”
“Yeah, he was almost six-five and weighed nearly two-eighty when he was fighting.” My dad was a beast. He dominated his weight class in two different boxing leagues and probably would have kept going if the aneurysm hadn’t killed him. It came out of nowhere. One minute, he was pummeling his opponent in the ring, and the next, he just stopped and dropped to the mat. He never got up again.
“What can I help with?” she asks as she watches me move around the kitchen, getting the things I need.
“In the bottom drawer of the fridge is stuff for a salad. You want to pull it out and make it?”
“Of course.” With an adorable little skip, she moves to the fridge and bends down to slide out the crisper drawer, her already-short dress riding up until I almost glimpse the sweet dip of her ass cheeks.
Damn! This woman has a body that won’t fucking quit. Down, boy!
I return my attention to the sauce that has been simmering on the stove for several hours and give it a stir. She sets something down behind me on the counter and then, in my peripheral vision, I see her grab a knife from the butcher block. Anticipating her next question, I turn around and reach into one of the cabinets below the island, pulling out a cutting board and setting it on the counter in front of her.
She grins at me, and I see some of the tension and unease leave her body. My heart thuds irregularly in my chest, and I have to turn back to the stove and unnecessarily stir the sauce again so she doesn’t see how much she affects me.
“What are you making?” she asks as she begins chopping the salad ingredients.
“Chicken parm. I hope you like it.”
“Oh, I love chicken parm. It’s one of my go-to orders whenever I go out for Italian.”
“Well, I hope mine stands up.” I pull the glass baking dish that contains the already breaded and pan-fried chicken breasts from the fridge and set it on the counter next to the stove. I can feel her eyes on me, following me as I move around the kitchen. She isn’t saying much, and that worries me.
What’s she thinking? Does she want to leave and is just too polite to tell me? Should I push her into talking to me about what she’s feeling about all this?
I top the chicken with sauce and cheese and slide it into the oven before turning back to see how Danika is doing on the salad.
“How’s it coming?”
She drops sliced tomatoes into the large wooden bowl and smiles at me. “Done.”
“Good, let’s open a bottle of wine while we wait for it to finish cooking.”
“Okay.”
By the time the food is ready and we’re at the table, we’ve almost finished a bottle. I’m not a big drinker. I enjoy a whiskey, or beer, or glass of wine, but tonight, just like at Angelo’s, drinking seems to ease some of the tension between us. Tension I caused.
Shit. I have some serious making up to do.
She picks at her food, complimenting me on how good it is but barely eating anything. Her eyes flicker over to me every couple of minutes but she doesn’t say much, and I can sense her unease returning.
It’s only natural but it’s so different from the last time we had dinner. It saddens me to know I caused this. I’m the only one to blame for her discomfort and confusion, and I wish I could kick myself for not just telling her from the beginning. I might have saved both of us some heartache, and from having a really uncomfortable dinner tonight.
An awkward silence settles over the table and she fidgets with her napkin and glass, avoiding eye contact again.
She’s thinking. She’s making her list of questions. She’s too afraid or embarrassed to ask.
“Why don’t you take another bottle of wine and the glasses out onto the deck, and I will clean up and then join you?”
Her eyes flicker up to mine and the corners of her mouth turn up into a half-hearted, fake smile.
Shit. She is really uncomfortable. What the hell did you expect, dropping it on her like this?
She slides her chair back from the table and approaches me slowly. Stopping in front of me, she pauses as she reaches for my wine glass. “Are you sure you don’t need any help cleaning up?”
“Nope, I got it.” I give her a reassuring smile and hope it helps her relax, but she grabs my glass and the bottle of wine quickly and disappears toward the living room without even glancing back.
Double shit.
I clear the plates from the table and load them into the dishwasher with the baking dishes and pots before I head out to the deck. When I reach the sliding glass door, I stop and watch her.
She’s lying on one of the chaise lounges, soaking up the last of the waning light of the sunset. Her eyes are closed, face turned up toward the sky, hair blowing in the light breeze. She’s a picture of pure beauty. To anyone taking a quick glance, she might even look relaxed and peaceful; but, I know better. I see the crinkles around her eyes as she squeezes them closed, the lines around her slightly-frowning mouth, and the way she’s gripping her wine glass so hard her knuckles are white.
She doesn’t know what to do, what to say. You’ve put her in an impossible position. You’re a selfish asshole. You should have told her from day one.
Dinner sits like a lead weight at the bottom of my stomach. I take a deep breath to avoid it coming back up and open the door before moving out onto the deck.
Her eyes fly open and she turns her head in my direction. When she sees me, she looks almost panicked and the tension in the air is so thick I can feel it weighing down on me like the late summer humidity. I want to wipe the trepidation from her face, the reservation from her stare, but I don’t know how.
“Why don’t you pour me another glass?”
She nods and reaches for the bottle, slowly pouring me a glass of wine while I move from my chair onto the chaise lounge parallel to hers. I feel her eyes on me the entire time, and I know she must have a million questions by now.
Once I se
ttle in, she hands me my glass and returns to other chaise, her body turned slightly toward me.
That’s a good sign, right?
“Ask,” I order, watching her shift anxiously in her seat.
Her head whips up and her eyes widen in surprise. “Uh, ask what?”
I smile at her and take a long sip of my wine, never looking away.
“Ask the million and one questions I know you must have but are either too afraid or embarrassed to ask. I promise you, I’ve already answered them a hundred times for other people, and you won’t offend me with anything you have questions about. I brought you into this without giving you all the information, and that wasn’t fair of me. I’m sorry. So, ask. I’m an open book.”
She takes a deep breath and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on it in a way that has me wishing it was my teeth there. I watch patiently as she struggles to come up with her first question.
Don’t push her. She has to do this on her own.
I take another drink of my wine, never taking my eyes off her, as she stares alternately between her bare feet and my hand wrapped around my wine glass.
“Um, so, you live alone and don’t need any help with anything?”
That isn’t the question you want to ask.
“No, I don’t need help with anything. Like I said, this place was specifically built to be handicap accessible so I wouldn’t need help. I do have a cleaning lady that comes in once a week, but, otherwise, I do everything myself.”
She seems to consider that for a moment before responding, “What about Gabe? He drives you.”
“Yes, but that isn’t because I can’t drive. I have several cars that are modified so I can drive them. It just happens that Gabe is with me most of the time anyway, so it’s easier if he drives.”
“Oh,” she says, staring at her wine before taking a long drink. I notice her hand shaking slightly as she lowers it from her lips and it fucking breaks my heart to think I’m making her that nervous.