Controlled Burn (Scarred Hearts)

by Nikki Duncan

  “Life been sucky at times?”

  “Sucky?” He did the single puff of air laugh again. “Try shitty. And not just at times.”

  “This is likely the last place you want to be.” Taking a chance, she turned the chair a little, facing him more directly. He stiffened, but he didn’t turn away from her. “So how can I help you get out?”

  He turned his head and faced her. “Why do you want to help me?”

  Meeting his gaze, she considered her answer. The connection that had sparked during the fire flared up. She hoped he had an appreciation for the truth.

  “I felt drawn to you that day, at the fire. Then I saw you, and you looked into my eyes. Then, like now, I recognized the agony of what you were facing. Because I’ve faced it myself.”

  Disbelief hardened his stare.

  “I don’t expect you to believe me.” She could prove it, but she wouldn’t. “I know that while some people will flinch at the sight of you and say they can’t imagine what you’ve faced—” she relaxed deeper into the chair, “—others will look you in the face and claim to know. Then they’ll give you advice.”

  “Like you are now.”

  “I’m not offering you advice.”

  “You’re claiming to know what I’ve faced. Is that because you’ve seen it as a therapist? Or because you really know?”

  Smiling the tiniest bit, she dropped her head at a slight angle and asked, “Which do you think is the truth?”

  “Nurse Lexi says you’re a physical therapist.”

  “I am,” she answered, allowing him his avoidance. “Did she also suggest I could help you get out of here earlier?”

  “It might have come up. Are you any good?”

  “Damn good. You think you want my help?”

  “No.” A swallow and then a shaking breath betrayed his nerves. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “I need your help.”

  His hesitance was endearing in an odd way. It seemed wrong to smile, but her lips curled of their own accord. “What do you have to do before they’ll release you?”

  “Get dressed on my own and walk to the nurse’s station without help.”

  “How far can you go now?”

  “I can get out of the bed, I can take a couple of steps, or I can unsnap the top two buttons of this damn gown.” His tone soured on the word “gown”, which made her want to smile again. “I can’t do all three.”

  “I assume you’ve been working with a therapist?”

  “Chloe Bauer.” That sour note hit his tone again, and it wasn’t a case of hating the agony she caused. He didn’t like her, and an intense dislike of a therapist often proved detrimental to recovery.

  “She’s tough.” Chloe had a reputation for being difficult to get along with, which was nothing more than a kind way of saying she had the personality of concrete. It worked with the patients who were more hardass to begin with, but anyone with a soul feeding their personality was doomed to clash with her.

  “She’s cold and robotic.”

  “Not a love match?”

  The strength of his glare gave him a comical look. When she smiled he glared more fiercely. She couldn’t restrain her chuckle.

  “You look miserable at the thought of her,” Delancey said. “And I’m not thinking it’s because of her therapy tips.”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  She winked. “When you growl like that, how can I refuse you?”

  His nose wrinkled, and damn if it didn’t make him cuter than his resistance. “Do you have clothes to change into?”

  A sigh shouldn’t be able to say as much as his did. “No.”

  “The hospital can provide you some.” She continued when he frowned. “Or I could go to your house and pack you a bag?”

  Silence and reddening cheeks was his only response for several moments. What he didn’t say, what his silences and hesitations said for him, stated with complete certainty that he hated asking for help. Hated needing help. Hated trusting her. Hated trusting anyone.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Restraining her smile this time came more easily, because Delancey knew a little something about trust issues and preferring to do everything herself. She’d even taken charge of her own physical therapy when she should have worked with a therapist.

  Because she knew the pain he felt, because she knew the loneliness he faced, because she knew the loss he grieved, she knew the struggle he overcame to ask for help.

  “How will you get in? My keys were in the office.”

  “I’m a firefighter. We have tools.”

  Surprise and a touch of fear flared his eyes wide. “I’d like my own clothes, but I’d also like my doors to be left intact.”

  “Please.” She waved a hand his way, having fun with him and not wanting it to end. “If I can’t break into your house without leaving a mark I’m not very good at my job.”

  “Are you a firefighter, a stalker or a burglar?”

  She laughed. He deserved that point, because firefighters weren’t known for their finesse when rushing into a building. They did know how to go slow when needed though. “Maybe a combination?”

  “That’s not a comfort.”

  “How about if I promise to replace or repair anything I mess up?”

  “Which makes you a carpenter or locksmith.”

  He’d relaxed some, sinking into the chair a little rather than sitting stiffly. His gown had shifted up, showing more of his leg, and he’d turned to face her almost directly. He would have a gnarly scar, but his reactions to her showed his ability to keep it from becoming a handicap or a crutch. She didn’t mention it though, because shining a light on the fact would have him turning it off in an instant.

  She shrugged. “A woman of many talents.”

  “Is one of those talents cooking?”

  Afraid he’d feel it was coming from a place of pity, she didn’t want him to know what she’d been doing. Answering questions he might come up with would send her backward in the quagmire of memories. She could skirt the edges of the swamp, but anything more threatened to suck her into a darkness she needed to avoid.

  “I can flip a flapjack,” she answered flippantly. “Why? You getting tired of hospital food?”

  His lips curled into a smile, and it wasn’t a partial smile. It was a full-out, ignite-a-spark-in-his-eyes-and-lighten-his-body smile. Disarmed, her heart slammed against the walls of her chest, clamoring for the freedom of more space. He could get her to admit to anything with a simple question, and that was dangerous.

  He was still smiling when he said, “No. Some angel’s been sending me homemade meals that could do Wolfgang Puck proud.”

  “You have a well-educated palate.”

  “Nah. Just making an assumption on reputation.”

  “If the food’s that good, why would you want to leave?”

  “Because even a stale peanut butter and jelly sandwich could give Wolfgang a run for his money outside of these walls.”

  “That certainly lowers the bar on whatever you’re being served.”

  “Even warmed up I’ve never had anything better in my mouth.” His cheeks flushed the moment the words passed his lips. Delancey could be nice and let it go. She wasn’t always nice.

  “That’s a sad statement, Logan. Unless you’re a virgin, which is sad in its own right, but at least it would explain a limited range of taste testing.”

  “I am not a virgin.”

  “You just haven’t tasted anything good? Maybe you need to sample something entirely different?”

  “Different’s good.” His gaze locked with hers, daring her to lean in and give him a taste of her.

  Their breaths grew shallow—at least she thought his did as well. Damn if she didn’t find herself working up the courage to do just that. To lean in and give him a taste. To take a taste.

  Her veins shook beneath the pressure of her pumping blood. Her nerves tingled, heightening her awareness of him. Sensations of con
nection and arousal seduced her until she did lean forward.

  Logan shifted in his chair, leaned forward.

  She scooted her chair closer until her knee brushed the inside of his. Even through her pants she felt his heat as it traveled up her thigh. The inches between them howled with need.

  The man was facing a long recovery that didn’t allow room for emotional entanglements. She should pull back, initiate a professional distance. She should stop seeing him and sending him food and thinking about him.

  She rested a hand on his unburned thigh and leaned closer. He mirrored her move, resting his hand on her thigh and digging his fingers ever so lightly into the tissue beneath his palm. Quaking needs that had gone unfulfilled for over a year snapped. Needs that had last been filled by Chad.

  Too late to avoid the quicksand of memories, they dragged her in. Tears filled her eyes and threatened to overtake her. Releasing a ragged exhale, she fisted the hand that was not on his thigh.

  She wanted the man before her, craved him on every level a body, a soul, could crave another. That craving was just as much reason to pull back as it was to move in. Could she do either without hurting him?

  “Logan,” she whispered. “I…” her lips trembled, “…can’t do this. Now.”

  His grip on her thigh vanished. He moved back. “I should have known better.”

  “No.” She was breaking her own heart with the rejection of what her soul recognized as perfection. She needed to not break his at the same time. The words “it’s not you it’s me” came to mind, but they were too cliché for him to possibly believe them. Which left her one option. A painful one. “My fiancé died in a fire. I haven’t been on so much as a date since.”

  “I see.” He sat back farther, wincing with the move. Or maybe the wince was from the idea that she couldn’t bring herself to be with him because of his injuries.

  “I feel drawn to you, Logan.” Honesty was the best path, for both of them. “It’s not a gentle tug either. I feel like I could lose myself in you, and I’m still learning who I am.”

  When he said nothing more, instead only watched her, she went on. “For the sake of perfect transparency, this has nothing to do with your burns. There’s something about you, the way you tried to save your sister, the way you can joke and let the shittiness of your situation go even for a little bit, the way you tempt me… I want to get to know you, but not if it means I’m going to damage your recovery because the emotions you need to face are being masked by lust.”

  “I’ll make you a deal, Delancey.” Logan leaned forward again. The move was charged, but not with sexual energy. No, naked acceptance was looking back at her, and she’d never felt safer. “I’ll focus on getting out of here and dealing with my emotions, but you have to do the same. And you have to do it with me.”

  The tears that had welled in her eyes fell. Logan had just given her one more reason to like him. Hell, maybe with him at her side she’d finally come to terms with what she’d lost. Maybe she’d finally find a way to heal.

  Chapter Six

  The almost-kiss with Delancey, the impression of her hand on his thigh, the arousal it incited didn’t stray far from Logan’s mind after she left to get his clothes. The more he thought about her the more on edge he became. And aroused. His body betrayed him every few thoughts and sprang to life at the thought of her.

  He’d just gotten himself reined in when she returned. As if they’d known each other for months or years versus hours, she walked to the bed and began pulling things out of a bag.

  Logan sat up and watched her. His favorite sweats, a pair of drawstring athletic shorts, a couple of loose T-shirts and a zipper hoodie came out. Socks and even a ball cap followed.

  One thing was missing. “You didn’t bring me underwear?”

  “I started to.” Delancey lifted the shorts and the sweats, silently asking which he preferred. “Then I thought about the beam we lifted off you and where you’d be burned. I wasn’t sure the restrictions of underwear would be comfortable.”

  He pointed to the sweats, thinking the lining would be softer against his skin than the hospital sheets. The protection against the air would be an added bonus for the moments when his nerve sensitivity flared up. He hoped.

  Going commando was bad enough, but doing it during therapy sessions with a woman who made keeping himself under control a challenge was horrible. Even now, thinking about her helping him change, his dick hardened.

  “There are benefits to restriction,” he muttered while he grabbed a T-shirt.

  Delancey took the rest of his clothes and put them back in the bag. “If you still feel that way when I leave again, I’ll go back. Turns out, you only live a couple blocks from the station house.”

  “Great.” In the meantime, he’d be sporting wood that would be more noticeable than Pinocchio’s nose.

  “You ready to get dressed? I’m only going to give you a hand if you can’t do it alone.”

  Oh, he could use her hand all right.

  Logan was very aware of the gravity of the error he’d made in asking for her help. She was going to be watching him undress and dress. She’d be touching him if he needed help. Touching meant she’d be close and that meant smelling her grapefruit scent that haunted his dreams.

  He hardened, and if her gaze drifted the smallest bit south she’d see. Embarrassment flamed his cheeks. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” he started. “Maybe I should keep working with the therapist I’ve been assigned.”

  “If that’s what you really want.” She stepped back, bowed her head a few degrees. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he heard the hint of hurt and then saw the tinge of pink on her cheeks. She swallowed.

  Shit. She’d noticed.

  He wanted her close, very close, as badly as he wanted distance. Complicating matters more, he desperately wanted the distraction her company brought, because when she was near he didn’t think about the pain. It was the first sense of peace he’d found since waking up.

  “No.” He sighed. “I want you. Your help. I want your help.”

  Her smile was sweet when she looked up. “Then I’ll stay.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You may regret it.”

  “I already do.” He gave up pretending he could ignore being attracted to her. She was giving him what he’d asked for. She’d been honest with him. He would do the same. “I’m sure I’ll regret it more every time you touch me.”

  “If you’d rather I let you fall on your face, just let me know.”

  He laughed, and just that quickly she’d reminded him why he’d accepted her help. Being with her was not only easy, it made him feel more whole than he’d ever thought possible. “I’ll take the touches.”

  She nodded and stepped forward. “Then let’s get you dressed so you feel more yourself when you start moving around.”

  He reached up to unsnap the gown fastener at the back of his neck. Delancey shook her head. “Start with the less exhausting task first. Pants.”

  “How do you see that as the easier task?” He always stood up to put his pants on, and standing on his own was not easy at the moment.

  “Unless your doctor said you have to get dressed while standing, you can change clothes from where you are. You have nothing under the gown to interfere, so you slip your feet into the pant legs and then ease them up. You can even roll to your stomach if that’s an easier way to lift yourself off the bed long enough to get your pants up.”

  And the idea of Delancey’s help just took on a new level of embarrassment. Whatever their relationship was, he didn’t relish the idea of her standing there to watch his struggles.

  “Do you have to watch?”

  “No.” But she didn’t turn away either.

  He stared at her.

  “We made a deal, Logan, that we’d face our emotions. Embarrassment is an emotion.”

  “I thought you were nice.”

  “Wait until you start walking.”

  For some
reason he’d thought nicer meant a softer approach to therapy. He wasn’t so sure that’s what he was going to get with Delancey. The woman was strong enough to lift a beam off him and then carry him out of a fire instead of passing him off to one of her male counterparts. It shouldn’t surprise him that she would take a tough approach.

  Putting his arguments aside, he grabbed the sweats and positioned them at his feet. Bending forward, almost in half to be able to reach his feet, pulled the skin on his back. The nerves at the edges of the grafts, the main points of pain, bellowed their protest. Unbending, the skin relaxed and his nerves settled down some.

  The sweats taunted him. Taking a different approach, he eased the foot of his burned leg up so he could work the sweatpants leg over his foot. The task seemed simple, but by the time he pushed his foot out the other end and straightened his leg he was sweating. His nerves were screaming and his breath was labored.

  “Does the doctor have a time limit on how long this is supposed to take me?”

  Delancey shook her head. “No. He doesn’t care how long it takes you or how you do it. He just needs to know you can do a few basic things for yourself.”

  Like not calling a nurse every time he had to go to the bathroom. He would’ve never dreamed a catheter came with benefits.

  When his breathing was less labored, he moved his unburned leg into the sweats. Fortunately, that leg was considerably easier to move and he only suffered a few pangs in his ass and back when he shifted more fully onto the graft sites.

  With his foot fully through, he considered turning to his stomach like Delancey had suggested. He settled on rolling to his unburned side. Reaching for the waist of his sweats, he stretched it out as far as it would go and eased the pants up, working to not drag them across his skin.

  The doctors might have said he was healing well, but for all he knew the wrong move would have the skin falling off. That was an experience he didn’t need to relive.

  Delancey was grinning when he finally had the pants up around his waist and lay back against the pillows. His energy was sapped, he still had to take the gown off and put a shirt on.