"Why?" He showed no sign that he was in pain.
She picked up the other towel filled with ice and handed it to him. "Why what?"
When he let the cold pack fall to his lap, she held it to his cheek for him. When he let her help him, she tried getting answers again.
"I don't know what you're asking me, Serge," she whispered.
"Why didn't you open the door earlier?"
She used her free hand to clean his chest with the other towel. "I was next door at Mrs. Sullivan's house. She called me because her breaker flipped, and she's unable to go down the stairs to the basement. That happens at least once a month, and it's easier for her to call me than a repairman who'll charge her."
He touched the back of his hand to his mouth and stood. She fell back on her ass to get out of his way.
"You didn't fucking open the door," he muttered.
She scrambled to her feet. "I told you. I was—"
"I know what you said." He whirled around and faced her. "You were supposed to be here. Say it."
Angered over his outburst, she scooped up the towels. "I think it's best if you go home and take care of yourself."
"Say it," he said.
She shook her head. "I don't answer to you or anyone. Please leave."
He remained.
Used to avoiding arguments with those who came to the shelter and became combative, she marched out of the room, down the hallway, and entered the laundry room at the back of the house. She threw the towels in the empty washer and slammed the lid down. He had no reason to be mad at her.
She wasn't home when he came by the house. Yesterday, she'd told him not to come over, and he'd shown up anyway. It wasn't her fault he ignored her wishes.
His behavior made her regret calling him.
Deciding she'd rather stay in the laundry room than face Serge, she folded her leggings, which she pulled out of the dryer before helping Mrs. Sullivan. She should've thrown away the business card he'd left at her house the first night and never called him. That's what she got for wanting to thank him for the flowers he'd left out on the porch.
She'd thought of nothing else but him since he opened the fire door and set off the alarm at the shelter, and she both hated and loved the feelings he brought out in her. But she wasn't going to encourage him to come to her house. More and more, he represented the kind of man she'd sworn to stay far, far away from her whole life.
Men who were out for only one thing. A love 'em and leave 'em kind. Apparently, the Haydon women had a weakness for asshole men because her mom had fallen in love with one and the moment, he found out she was pregnant, he left. She wasn't going to continue the cycle.
She eyed the stack of clothes. Someone had to put a stop to her insanity, and considering he was in her house, the responsibility fell on her shoulders. She walked out of the room to send him away.
Serge stood in front of the living room window, gazing out into the night. She hesitated, studying his back. Still shirtless, his muscles twitched. From all appearances, he hadn't calmed down.
"Serge?" She walked to the side of the couch, thinking a piece of furniture would keep her from touching him. "I'm not sure what happened tonight, and I'm sorry you were hurt, but I think you need to leave."
"Why?" He remained facing the window.
His voice, unemotional and flat, gave her goosebumps. She blew up her cheeks, held her breath, and slowly let the air out. "Because you're not the type of man I normally date. I don't want to lead you on. I'm sorry. I know I did, and I feel bad—"
He turned around. "Bad?"
She stepped behind the couch. Her heart raced.
He held up his arms. "Jesus, will you stop that. I'm not going to hurt you."
"You're angry." She glanced at the floor before meeting his gaze. "You're freaking me out. We slept together. That's it. Then you show up pissed off and bloody as if someone beat you up, being a jerk to me, and expect me to want you again. What am I supposed to think?"
"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asked.
