Confessions in the Dark (3 page)

“Come on,” she said. “At least give it a try. I'll take you to your appointment today either way.” Depending on how long it took, she might have to run to pick Max up from practice right after. But that made this even better. “You can meet Max on the ride home. You'll love him.” How could anyone not?

“And if I don't?”

Ugh. Please. “Then we call the whole thing off. But he's a sweet kid. I promise.”

He was wavering; she was sure of it. She held her breath as he seemed to mull it over.

And it didn't make much sense, why she was suddenly so invested in this. She didn't know this man. He could be lying to her about his qualifications, and even those were sparse. But she was desperate to get Max into that school, and this was the best lead she'd gotten so far.

And there was more to it, too. Not just the dark beauty to his eyes or the full lines of his mouth. The way his shirt draped across the musculature of his chest. There was the way she'd found him, defeated at the top of the stairs. The pride with which he'd tried to turn her down.

He
needed
help. And help was the one thing she always had to give.

Her heart in her throat, she stood. Took the two steps toward him and held out her hand. “So? What do you say?”

What Cole wanted to say was, “Are you completely insane?”

But he stared at the open palm extended toward him, the brave set to her jaw, and the kindness in her eyes.

And what he heard himself ask was, simply, “Why?”

Her half-smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Then, regrouping, she replied, “Why not?”

Only any of a thousand possible reasons.

He gestured to the hamper and then to the overflowing messenger bag near the door. “Surely you have better things to be doing than ferrying around a...a cripple.”

She shook her head. “We don't use that kind of ableist language around here.”

She had to be kidding him.

“You didn't want me to say ‘fuck,' either, and yet...”

Huffing, she extended her hand a little farther into his space. “Well, this time I really mean it. Now do we have a deal or not?”

He wanted to check the room for hidden cameras. This had to be a joke, or a terrible reality TV show. Something. People didn't make these kinds of offers. Especially when he had so little to give her in return. Only four square walls and a particular tragedy. The beginning of a story that couldn't possibly end well.

One last time, he balked. “I don't even know your name, and you expect me to get into your car?”

At that, the corners of her mouth turned up. “Serena,” she said.

And he was running out of options here.

Everything in him screamed at him to decline. Even if her generosity were real, she wanted him to—what? Spend time with a child? Teach it arithmetic or some such nonsense? No. He couldn't possibly. His heart pounded painfully behind his ribs, memories of blood and glass too close to the surface, of raising a hand against the boys who had made him their own personal punching bag. The look on Helen's face the last time he'd seen her. He dug his nails in hard against his palm. He didn't trust himself, and she shouldn't, either. It was too big a risk.

It was too far to have fallen. All his degrees, his publications, and to be reduced to explaining the most basic concepts...

“Honestly,” she said, and a sadness colored that smile. “What have you got to lose?”

His chest squeezed even harder, making it impossible to breathe.

Nothing. There was nothing
left
for him to lose.

And for a moment, she looked so much like Helen, sounded so much like the voice inside his head. Cajoling him and pulling him out of his own misery. They both should have left him there. But Helen never would, and this woman, Serena—she wouldn't, either, would she?

He wanted so badly to reach out and take her hand.

It was the briefest moment of flickering indecision, but that was all it took. The next thing he knew, he'd placed his palm in hers, and her skin was so soft. Something deep inside him melted, his blood pulsing with a life, a warmth he hadn't known in so long. Grief was an ever-present specter hovering just behind his shoulder, but for an instant, the emptiness of it cut less bitterly into his heart.

And she smiled at him. Warm and beautiful, the rosy curve of her mouth tilting upward until its brightness threatened to blind him.

He nearly faltered. That smile. It couldn't be for him. It wouldn't be—not for long. This had been a mistake. He moved to pull back, but she was stronger than she looked.

Holding firm, she squeezed his palm. “This is going to work out so great. I can just feel it.”

With that, she was in motion, dropping his hand and crossing the room. His skin burned with the sudden loss of her touch, and his mind reeled. She grabbed her phone and a little blue handbag from a table near the door, swinging her hair out of the way before she dialed and held the speaker to her ear. She looked to him and motioned for him to come along. He hadn't so much as begun to rise when she turned away.

“Yes, I ordered a cab a few minutes ago. I need to cancel that.”

For a blessed second, her attention was diverted, and he closed his eyes against the stinging there. He took a rough, deep breath and then another.

This woman was a storm, one he'd already walked out into without so much as an umbrella. He was going to end up soaked to the bone.

But he was a desert, and after so many years of stagnant air, her whirlwind, her rush...it was such a relief.

He opened his eyes again as she ended the call. This time, he didn't wait to be persuaded or cajoled. He got his hand on the grip of his crutch. Slow and hobbling, he crossed the bit of carpet to her door. She held it open for him, the full power of her grin still turned on him.

He soaked it in. And stepped right out into her deluge.

C
ole?”

At the sound of his name, Cole looked up from his mobile to find a woman in teddy bear scrubs scanning the waiting room expectantly. About bloody time.

He and Serena had made it to the office with half an hour to spare, but it hadn't gotten them in any faster. One more minute of whatever ridiculous soap opera had been blaring away on the television and he'd have put his fist through the screen.

Worse, Serena had insisted on waiting with him. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. For her to have gone home, perhaps, or out for a cup of tea, since they'd left theirs sitting untouched in her flat in their hurry to leave. But no. She'd followed him in, getting doors and grating against every misgiving floating around in his heart. Sitting right next to him in an uncomfortable, pink, fake leather chair, her arm brushing his and the sweetness of her scent crowding him, setting him more on edge than the daytime television, even.

It was torture and perfection, heaven and hell, and he couldn't have gotten up out of his chair faster if he'd tried.

As he rose, something inside him unclenched. He didn't relish being poked and prodded by doctors, but at least it would be a respite. A moment away from this woman who'd forced her way into his space and his day and—it was starting to seem—his life.

So of course she followed him.

He stopped cold, and his voice was a barely restrained hiss. “This isn't necessary.”

“It kind of is.” She put a hand on his arm to keep him moving forward, leaning in close, and his thoughts spun. “I hate these waiting rooms. The awful TV.” She dropped to a near-whisper, an exaggerated shudder shaking her frame. “And all the germs.”

He swallowed his questions about why on earth she'd come in, then. What was the point? He felt the same, would've done the same.

The nurse gave them a tight smile as she showed them to an empty exam room. He sat on the table, leaving Serena one of the chairs, and recited off the particulars of his injury in response to the nurse's questions. When she was satisfied, the nurse closed her computer and opened a drawer to hand him a flimsy paper sheet. “The doc'll want to see your leg.”

Of course he would.

“Naturally,” he gritted out.

And then the nurse was leaving, closing the door behind her, and it was just him and this woman. And instructions for him to take his trousers off.

He swallowed hard, the back of his throat aching as he gripped the sheet, crinkling the scratchy fabric between his hands.

Color rose across her cheeks. “I can...”

“Just. I know it's silly, but...” He made a twirling motion with a finger in the air.

He couldn't be arsed about her seeing his legs, but he didn't need her gawking while he strained to unlace his bloody shoes.

“Right.” Except she didn't turn around at all, just stared at him, and what if this were different? If he were baring himself for her for real. If she were going to
touch
him—

If he were allowed to touch her.

His reverie broke, shattering like so much glass. When he cleared his throat, the sound broke the air. She blinked, eyes wide, the flush on her pretty, pale skin deepening. She whirled around almost too fast.

He had to take a long, deep breath.

It was as much of a struggle getting his shoes off as it had been the day before, his leg painful and stiff, the brace unyielding. But he managed. They clunked against the tile, and then there was nothing but to untie the drawstring of the trousers he would never have worn outside his apartment, not in a million years, but he hadn't had a choice. He pushed the fabric off and away, staring down at his own naked legs until his vision threatened to dissolve.

He settled the sheet over his lap and worked his jaw. “You can look now.”

And she did.

Heat bloomed through his body, an ancient pleasure humming just beneath his skin as her gaze took him in. Hungry, and God, fuck, but no one had looked at him like that in so long. He hadn't let them. He crushed the sheet in his fists, everything in him going tight.

It was too much.

“Oh.” Her lashes fluttered. When they opened again, her eyes were clearer, and the iron bars around his ribs relaxed. She dropped her gaze and muttered, “Sorry.”

“It's fine.”

It was as far from fine as it could be.

If awkwardness were something you could drown in, Serena really, really should've brought a life jacket. Worse, it was basically all her fault. She'd been the one to insist on following him in here, and she was the one who'd frozen up when it was time for him to change. She should have left him alone for that part if nothing else, but it was as if her feet were bolted to the floor.

Even now, she kept glancing over at him. His legs were so long that the sheet only covered part of them. With his socks still on, it shouldn't have been sexy at all, but he had these lean, muscular calves, his skin faintly golden through the dusting of hair. The starchy, white drape only did so much to hide the shapes of strong thighs or the dark outline of what she was pretty sure were boxer briefs.

The black, boxy shape of the brace he wore around his knee.

A knock at the door had her jerking her gaze away from his legs.

Cole—that was the name they'd called in the lobby—sat up straighter. His voice came out strained when he called, “Come in.”

The doctor was a woman, mid-fifties maybe. She shook Cole's hand and nodded at Serena before opening her laptop and scanning the screen. “So what do we have here?”

“Dislocated patella,” Cole said.

The doctor went through the details of the injury with him, and Cole sighed. Huh. Maybe that was why he'd seemed so put upon when Serena had asked. He must have recited the story a hundred times by now. And yet as he told it again, he left out all the best parts, the robbers and his heroics, and she wanted to jump in. To make sure this doctor knew what kind of person she was treating.

Then again, maybe the fact that he didn't mention it spoke more to that than the story ever could.

“All right, then.” The doctor stood and gestured at the sheet. “Let's see what we're dealing with.”

Serena hadn't been wrong about the firm shapes of his thighs. As he hiked the fabric up, he revealed more of himself to her. The doctor undid the fastenings of the brace, and Cole sucked in a tight breath.

Serena let out one of her own. The whole area around his knee was flushed and angry, the joint swollen. A dark, purple bruise went green around the edges across the side of his leg, and his skin bore red lines from the constriction of the brace.

Whistling, the doctor leaned in to touch, and Cole's hands clenched into fists at the first hint of contact.

“Tender?”

“You could say that.”

The doctor chuckled but kept going. When she was satisfied, she stepped back. “Believe it or not, the swelling is pretty much what I would expect at this stage. Keep up with the anti-inflammatories, and no weight on it for at least another few days. Maybe a week.”

His shoulders stayed stiff as ever, his posture as closed, but the way his eyes shuttered and his head bowed belied that show of stoicism. “Then what?”

“Start playing with how much pressure you can tolerate. Do
not
push it. Until the soft tissue heals up, you're more likely to reinjure yourself. We'll see you back here in a couple of weeks.”

“And until then there's
nothing
I can do?”

The doctor hesitated, maybe hearing the same low thread of desperation Serena did. “Well. There are some exercises to work on range of motion and preserve muscle mass, but I'd be very conservative this soon after the injury.”

“Show me.”

The stretches she walked him through were simple in the extreme, but even gently bending his knee made him wince. “That's plenty,” she said, stepping away. Then she turned to Serena. “Are you his wife?”

And Serena would have missed it completely if she hadn't been looking at him at the time. The way his face, already drawn, flashed white, his hold on the edge of the table going punishing. “No,” he said, like it were impossible, repulsive.

It stung. But she recovered quickly enough. Looking away, she even managed a smile. “Just a friend.” Not even that, honestly.

Oblivious to the moment's drama, the doctor nodded. “It's your job to keep him from overexerting himself.”

“I don't—” She started to protest. She wasn't his wife and she certainly wasn't his keeper.

He interrupted. “I can manage myself.”

The doctor's skeptical glance showed just how much she thought of that. She looked to Serena again. “Watch him.”

The weight of the responsibility settled over her shoulders like an old sweater, all frayed but worn in. Her mother had given her the same directive often enough, and who was she to refuse? She was the one who was well. She could handle it.

Weakly, she nodded. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Great.” She clicked at her touchpad a few times before closing the computer and tucking it under her arm. “Schedule a follow-up for a couple of weeks, and then we'll probably be ready to get you into physical therapy. Until then, take it easy. Heal. Doctor's orders.”

Cole nodded, but it was all rippling, barely contained dissent in those broad shoulders of his. The doctor left, and Cole reached for the brace. He leaned forward to slip it over his foot and bit off a curse.

And Serena had half a mind to let him struggle, humiliated heat still bubbling away in her chest from his dismissal. But after another try and another fail, she stepped in, taking the thing from him.

“I can—”

She cut him off. “But you don't have to.”

The brace was a heavy fabric tube, like a dive suit, reinforced with boning along the sides of an opening that seemed made to fit around his kneecap. She played with the Velcro straps meant to hold it secure around the joint before grasping it by the top. Ducking to hold it open by his foot, she paused, cocking a brow at him.

“May I?”

But he looked so sour about it all. “It's just the angle. I managed fine this morning.”

Proud, proud, stubborn man. “Good for you.” Then, again, she asked, “May I?”

He gave a curt nod. Together, they managed to get it onto his leg. His throat bobbed, his jaw going hard when she helped him drag it past his calf, over the angry shadow of that bruise. She muttered a quiet apology as she fastened the straps, pulling them tight across the wound.

“There.” She smoothed the Velcro down.

And there wasn't any explaining it. The job was done, his brace in place. But she couldn't seem to step away. Couldn't take her hand back.

The skin of his thigh was smooth and warm, the muscle jumping as she traced her fingertips across it. A low hum of heat zipped down the center of her chest to settle lower in her belly, and her heart pounded behind her ribs.

Then his hand was on hers. Stilling it. She looked up into eyes so deep she could've fallen into them. Grasping her palm, he stroked her knuckles with his thumb, gaze darkening, breath halting.

He blinked. When he looked to her again, it was with a ragged inhalation. The haze in his eyes bled away, leaving behind something she could only categorize as pain.

He pushed her away.

She didn't hesitate this time to turn around when he reached for his pants. Arms crossed over her chest, indignation and anger and embarrassment all twisting together in her lungs, she waited until she heard the clinking of his crutches. She avoided his gaze as she helped him get his shoes. Once he had his crutches under him, she moved toward the door, only to feel the warm grasp of his palm around her wrist.

She waited, heart thundering.

Low and quiet, he said simply, “Thank you.”

And she didn't know what she'd been expecting, but those two words—they were exactly what she'd wanted and a crushing disappointment all at once.

“You're welcome.” She tugged her arm away and headed for the door. As she waited for him to cross the space, she checked the time on her phone. Damn. “Come on,” she said, ushering him out. “We're going to be late.”