“So, what happened?” He finds an acceptable bandage and holds out his hand again, silently requesting mine.
I weigh keeping it all in and locked up tight, where I handle things on my own, but tonight, it doesn’t seem like that’s working so well.
I force my gaze to his as he delicately takes my hand again. The patience and gentleness I find there tell me it might be ok to tell him. He’s completely unrelated and uninvolved, but then again, I saw how this man judged me when I first took my car in. He thought I was some rich bitch from wherever the upper side is in this city.
“You know how they say you win some, you lose some?” I slump as Slade grabs a tiny foil packet of antibiotic ointment.
He says nothing as he lifts my hand closer to his face.
“Well, I’m on a heavy losing streak.”
He tears open the packet and squirts it along my cut. The silence lingers as he places the bandage, and my skin warms with being vulnerable.
“It just. . .feels like every damn thing is hard.” I huff out a laugh, needing the blunt giant tosay something. “Even making cookies for my kid’s preschool class,” I try to joke.
He smooths the sticky edges of the Band-Aid across my palm, and his thumb brushes back and forth across my wrist, inspecting his work.Those mysterious eyes drift up to mine, but then he releases my hand before I can tell what’s behind them.
He tosses the wrapper in the trash, and Grover’s head perks up as if Slade might give him a scoop of food.
Slade moves to grab his coat off the chair but pauses. “You’re studying statistics?” His brow furrows.
I glance at the textbook sitting on top of my laptop. “I don’t think you can call what I’ve been doing studying.” I hop off the counter, irritated that I laid all that out there, and he didn’t say a damn thing. “I mostly use it as a pillow.”
I grab the mixing bowl, carrying it to the trash to scrape out the cookie dough, but Slade takes it from me. He uses the spatula to clean the sides.
“You’re taking a class on statistics?” I hear the confusion in his tone.
“Yeah. I mean, not by choice. It’s a requirement. I can only handle two courses. I thought I’d get it out of the way, but with how things are going, I’ll be retaking it.”
He turns toward me, the bowl resting in his hand. “You’re in school?”
Why does he sound so surprised? “Yeeeaaah,” I say slowly, ready for all his questions to stop.
He glances at the book again and then at me. “You’re not a lawyer.”
I put my hands on my hips and then drop the sore one. “No. I’m a paralegal, but I want to be a lawyer. I was really lucky to be hired by Griffin Macavoy. He took a chance on me.”
His eyes rest on the table again, and then he sets the bowl in the sink, fills it with water, and washes it. When he’s done, he pulls on his coat. “Be careful with your hand.”
That’s it? That’s the end of the questions and conversation?
I stare at him. “Got it.” I salute, so completely unable to read this man, and it’s frustrating as hell.
It’s possible I see his lips twitch as he turns for the door. He reaches for the knob but stops.
“I think it’s when we’re held to the flame that we find out what we’re really capable of. You’re gonna be ok, Sarah.” His eyes hold mine, and I see so much but also so little.
Something swirls in my chest that begs to know everything in between.
He nods once. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He opens the door and disappears into the night. I stand there, not completely sure what to make of the deep insight he just dropped and left me with.
A tickle creeps up my throat, wanting desperately to believe him. I want to know that it really will be ok.
He said it so perfectly. I feel like I’m being held to the flame to see how long I’ll actually be able to last before I crash and burn. All I know is that I just hope I’m made of strong enough stuff to withstand whatever might come next.
Chapter 11
