"What makes you think I'm interested in being the meat in your sandwich?" I asked.
Was I? Okay, yes I was. There'd be worse things in the world than being between two hot mountain men, even if they were assholes.
"What makes you think you have a choice?" With that, he twisted the knob and stepped out of the door, leaving it ajar behind him.
I gaped, but I knew he wasn't being literal. His hands on my feet and legs and the way he made the bath the perfect temperature told me I always had a choice. Connor Ferguson was gentler than he tried to let on. The asshole mountain man routine was a façade. A mask against…what? I didn't know, but in spite of myself, I was curious to find out.
I grabbed up the TV remote from where I left it on the coffee table and rolled through the streaming services on the big screen TV. Not looking for a romantic comedy. I finally settled on a cooking show, where the host was making some kind of elaborate dessert. The kind that made me put on weight just by watching them add ingredients to the bowl.
I half-watched it while I kept an eye on the door, and listened for his footsteps outside. Honestly, I wasn't expecting him to return at all. I might have been his good deed for the day, and now he was done. If that was the case, I'd order food in. I'd have to be careful of my dwindling finances, but a girl had to eat. Having sold all of my paintings at the market the day before helped, but it wouldn't last long. I needed to draw and paint more, be ready for the next influx of tourists. With any luck, they'd be hungry for a visual reminder of their time here. If I had to, I could do caricatures of them, but that was a last resort.
"Honey, I'm home." Connor pushed the door open and stepped inside, bags in either hand.
"You don't live here," I reminded him. "You shouldn't have got all of that for me either." It looked like he spent a small fortune on groceries.
"I'm not taking it back." He placed the bags on the kitchen counter and started to unpack and put everything away in the fridge and cabinets. "I bought a couple of things for you to heat up, so you don't have to cook until you're ready."
"If you're not careful, you're going to ruin your reputation of being an asshole," I said.
"No, I won't, because no one would believe you if you told them." He smirked over the door of the fridge as he placed a bottle of milk inside.
"I should have videoed this," I said with mock regret. "Then I'd have proof."
"I'd make you delete it," he said.
"You think you can make me do anything?" I leaned against the back of the couch and watched him move around the small kitchen like he belonged there.
"I know I can." He closed the fridge and folded the empty grocery bags, leaving them carefully piled on each other.
"Okay." I watched the television chef scrape ice cream into neat balls and place them on the dessert plate. The whole thing looked fancy and delicious.
"Leah," Connor said.
I ignored him and instead watched the chef dig into the desert they'd just finished making.
"Leah." Connor pressed. He stepped over and knelt down between me and the TV.
"Is this where you threaten to spank me for not replying?" I asked.
What was I saying? I couldn't believe those words came out of my mouth. Now they had, I waited for his response, my breath hitching in the back of my throat.
"This is where I say I have to go," he said with regret. "The spanking will have to wait for another time." The look in his eyes suggested it was definitely a when and not an if.
I glanced down to where the front of his shirt was open, showing a sprinkling of dark hair.
"Seriously, thank you," I said softly. "Flare-up days are the worst. Usually I just… I don't know, push through. You made it easier today." Without him, I would have relied on heat packs and pain pills, doing my best to manage the inflammation while attempting not to lose my shit and cry at the frustration of my body betraying me like this. I knew some people had it a lot worse than I did, but it still sucked. It felt like a sentence I'd been given without knowing why.
He might never know how much his help actually meant to me. I might not even admit it to myself. Pride was a difficult thing to put aside, especially given everything I'd lost to my semi-broken body. The things I didn't want to think about right now.
Connor glanced away. He seemed as comfortable with receiving gratitude as I did with asking for help. Like he wishedhe was anywhere but there in that moment. Doing just about anything.
"Don't mention it," he mumbled. "Really don't. Like I said, no one would believe you anyway." His mouth turned down and his brow creased. His grumpy mask was pushed firmly back into place.
"Why do you want everyone to think you're an asshole?" I asked. The more I saw of him, the more I realised there was a lot more to Connor Ferguson than he let on. He was arrogant and smug on the outside. On the inside, there was someone decent. A man who cared about people other than himself.
His gaze settled on my lips, as if he was thinking of kissing me. "Because it's easier."
"Easier than what?" I asked. "Easier than people thinking you're actually a nice guy?"
