House of Scarlett

by Meghan March

  Judging by the red-faced woman in front of me, it’s going to take a few years for the embarrassment of this moment to fade away.

  I rinse as fast as possible and shut the water off. Before the spray stops, the end of a towel flips over the top of the shower door. By the time I tug the towel to my body, Scarlett is speaking twice as fast as she normally does.

  “I shouldn’t have seen that, and I should probably just go get back in bed and pretend this never happened, but I can’t. Still, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have intruded. Clearly, you needed . . . um . . . personal time, and I interrupted. I apologize.”

  In no time at all, I scrub my body dry and secure the towel around my hips before opening the shower door and stepping out into the small bathroom. She won’t meet my eyes, and that’s the one thing I can’t handle.

  Using my thumb, I maneuver her chin to the side and up until she meets my gaze.

  “I’m not complaining, ladybug. Only downside right now is that I gotta wait for my chance to see you do the same. But you better believe me, babe. It’s gonna happen.”

  Her face was rosy before, but now it’s approaching a shade of fire-engine red.

  “I . . . I . . .” She blinks twice. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, as long as you’re on board.”

  Those gray eyes are almost hazy when she replies. “Then I guess this conversation is over.”

  I do a mental fist pump of victory. “Let’s get you back in bed. You need some rest before you’re gonna be in fighting shape.”

  Together, we move out of the small guest bathroom, and wearing only the towel, I follow her to her bedroom.

  Once she’s tucked into bed again, her lashes flutter against her cheeks and she yawns. “I can’t believe how tired I am.”

  “Healing takes more energy than you realize. I get the feeling that you don’t hold still much, but right now, that’s what your body needs. Everything will still be here when you’re feeling better. It can all wait.”

  “Okay, Dr. Legend.” A note of sarcasm enters her tone.

  “’Fraid that isn’t going to work as a nickname either. You’ll find one. Keep going.” Another yawn interrupts whatever she was going to say, and I reach out to brush her hair off her face. “Good night, ladybug.”

  “’Night, Gabriel.”

  Twenty-Six

  Scarlett

  “Fucking piece-of-shit motherfucker.”

  The curse is whispered, but the voice speaking it is deep enough that it rouses me from sleep. I blink open my eyes, but I feel like my head is swimming.

  Did I get hit by the extra-tired bus?

  Normally, when I first open my eyes in the morning, I’m wide awake. I don’t hit snooze and usually just pop right out of bed. But today should definitely qualify for snooze-button consideration. I lean over to look at the antique brass clock beside my bed.

  That is dead because I forgot to wind it. My cell phone is MIA and . . .

  “Fucking piece of shit. Seriously?” The whisper comes again, and I remember why I feel like hell and why there’s a man in my house.

  Because he’s taking care of me after my surgery. The surgery I had to have after my appendix decided it didn’t want to be in my body any longer.

  “Motherfucker.” This whisper is so low, it might as well be a growl.

  Carefully and quietly, I roll to the side and wrap the robe that I slept in around me. Getting up produces a few twinges in my abdomen, so I gingerly inch off the bed until my feet finally touch the chilly wood floor. It only takes me a half dozen steps to see the source of the hushed swearing.

  Gabriel.

  He’s hunched over a laptop at my kitchen table, and his dark blond mane is wild and sticking up at the ends like he’s jammed his hands through it a dozen times. Add in the cursing, and it’s enough to tell me he’s frustrated as hell about something.

  “Can I help?” I ask quietly.

  I didn’t want to freak him out, but he jolts out of his chair and spins to look at me. He’s a few motions away from being in a fighting stance, so I think it’s fair to say my quiet approach didn’t work.

  I hold up both hands. “Just me.”

  “Shit. Sorry,” he says as his posture relaxes immediately. His hair is still unruly, though, and I want nothing more than to close the distance between us, smooth it away from his face like he did to me last night, and press a kiss to his jaw.

  The fact that I most definitely have horrific morning breath is helpful in stopping me from becoming too familiar. Next time, though . . . I might as well take advantage of having him in my space.

  So what if he learns he’s madly in love with me and can’t stay away after seeing me up close and personal in the midst of my healing glory? I could think of worse, and more realistic, things.

  “You feeling okay? You want to sit down? I saw you have a shit ton of different kinds of tea. I can make you a cup, but you’re going to have to tell me which kind, because I got stuck between Lemon Berry Vanilla Swirl and Fall Pumpkin Chai Spice. And just for the record, I have a dick, so I don’t know what either of those things taste like.”

  It’s a miracle that my knees don’t give way, because that statement carries such an unexpected swoon factor that I’m not even sure what to do with myself. Tea. That’s right. I need to pick some tea.

  “Lemon Berry works for me. But I’ll make it. No problem.” I glance at the laptop in front of him, which still has the clear plastic sticker stuck to the silver lid. “Is there something I can do to help you, though? I heard you . . . being frustrated.”

  His gaze darts to the bedroom door and back to the computer before landing on me again. “Shit. I didn’t mean to wake you up. Although I guess this is better than you freaking out after I toss this thing out the goddamned window.”

  I move closer and peer down at it, but I’m only giving it part of my attention, because the heat radiating off Gabriel’s body steals the rest of it.

  “New computer?” I inhale that woodsy spicy scent, and I want to curl into him and just soak it up, along with his natural warmth.

  “Yeah, mine took a crap and Zoe bought me this one. But it’s nothing like my old one, and I can’t figure out how to open the spreadsheet Q sent over. I’m about out of options except for sending it back to Zoe.”

  I tear my attention away from the man to look at the computer again. The little apple with a bite taken out of it tells me everything I need to know. “Did you have a Mac before?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Did Zoe ask you if you wanted a Mac now?”

  He shakes his head. “She just said she was getting me something that wouldn’t get viruses so I could—” His words cut off abruptly as he pinches his lips together.

  “So you could what?” I grip the back of the chair for support as I arch my back to work out a kink between my shoulders.

  “Nothing,” he says, staring above my head, like there’s something fascinating high on the wall behind me. “Forget I said anything.”

  “Okay . . . but she’s right. Macs are usually easier to keep running and working right, at least from my experience.” Then a thought hits me, and my lips and tongue keep moving, even though I shouldn’t be talking. “Oh my God, she bought it for you to watch porn so you wouldn’t get viruses!”

  Gabriel looks at the floor and his hair hangs forward, obscuring much of his features, but I still see the ruddy hue on his cheeks.

  I keep going. Why . . . I’ll never know. “It’s okay. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I watch porn too. And my Mac has never gotten a virus. She was right. It’s a good choice. I’ve never had any issues.”

  By the time I finally manage to get my babbling under control, heat stains my cheeks, and Gabriel stares at me with bemusement stamped on his face.

  “You are something else, ladybug.”

  This time, I’m the one dropping my gaze. “I’ll just get some tea and go back to bed. It�
�s the painkillers. Yes, let’s blame the painkillers.”

  He closes the remaining distance between us and cups my hip with one of his hands. “Go back to bed. I’ll bring you the tea and your breakfast menu. You’re overdue for a pain pill, but I didn’t want to wake you. We’ll get you back on schedule, though.”

  “You don’t have to stay,” I tell him, glancing at the computer. “You have work to do. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  He leans forward until he’s in that position that makes me melt—with his lips a breath away from my temple. “I’m not going anywhere, Scarlett. Come on, back to bed you go.”

  He leads me back into the bedroom and once again helps me under the covers.

  “You’re a pretty good tucker-inner,” I say as he arranges the throw blanket over my legs and feet. “You get a lot of practice at this?”

  I want to know more about his past, to know more about him in general, but that’s as much as I’m willing to pry.

  “Not really. But it’s easy with you. At least, if you’d stay still.”

  One corner of his mouth tugs up in that lazy almost-grin, and it’s a good thing I’m lying down because . . . goddamn, he is a beautiful man. Ridiculously blue eyes. Shaggy dark blond hair mixed with brown, a few months past due for a haircut, but it looks so good against his tanned skin. Gabriel Legend practically vibrates health and vitality in comparison to my invalid status.

  “Before you drift off again, I’ll bring in your tea and the menu for breakfast. Pick something, and I’ll wake you up when it’s ready. Then you can take your pills.”

  “You’re pretty amazing, you know?”

  He brushes off my compliment. “No sleeping until I have your order.”

  “Okay, but only if you bring your computer too, so I can try to help you set it up.”

  His whole face turns into a thundercloud. “No work for you.”

  “But I can help.”

  “Later.”

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes, and his almost-grin comes back. That makes conceding the point a hundred times better, in my book.

  It doesn’t, however, prepare me for the massive mug and plate he returns with on a tray. Normally, I brew a pot of tea and pour it into one of my teacups. But not Gabriel. No, that must have been too feminine for him to contemplate.

  Next to the mug is a handwritten note that obliterates my heart.

  * * *

  Legend’s Diner

  It isn’t fancy, but it’s honest food.

  Wednesday specials:

  Scrambled eggs with turkey bacon

  Breakfast sandwich fried egg and turkey bacon

  Pancakes – Waffles – Toast – English muffin

  Yogurt

  The cook is also happy to make a combination of any of the above items as long as he doesn’t have to mix yogurt with eggs and bacon. Because that would be nasty.

  * * *

  Never in my life have I seen something so unbelievably touching. It’s all written in that same dark scrawl of the note he sent me, and I already know that I’m keeping this menu forever. I might even frame it, if I can get away with it.

  “You are . . . wow. Just . . . wow.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m unbelievably overwhelmed at the time and care he’s taking with me.

  At the hospital, Gabriel told me he’d show me he meant what he said, and oh my word, I had no idea what that entailed.

  “I can get bagels too, but I’ll have to leave. Really, I can get you whatever you want from wherever you want. Just say the word.” His eyes won’t quite meet mine, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s embarrassed.

  “No, no. This is amazing. I’d love some scrambled eggs, toast, and yogurt. I should be able to handle that, right?”

  “I read the doctor’s instructions, and they said you can go back to eating normally whenever it feels right. Google said try bland foods first, just in case. Anyway, I think all of those count.”

  A blanket of warmth wraps around me. “You googled it for me?”

  Gabriel nods. “I wasn’t going to take the chance of fucking you up after they just got you fixed. I may not be a doctor, but I know how to take care of someone.”

  Bump. His name pops into my head immediately, and I can imagine Gabriel taking care of the younger man after he got shot in the head. Jesus. The last thing I want is for him to get dragged back down memory lane by taking care of me, but he doesn’t seem upset. Just . . . slightly embarrassed about the menu.

  “Thank you, Gabriel. This means a lot to me.”

  “Whatever you need, ladybug. I’m your guy. Be back in a few.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Legend

  The toast pops out of the toaster just as I slide the eggs on the plate. Good timing. There’s a carton of strawberry yogurt on the counter, and I’ve been debating whether to put it in one of those fancy miniature bowls she has.

  Seriously? You want to dirty another dish just to make the tray look good?

  Yeah. Yeah, I do. Because this is Scarlett we’re talking about. Although I’m pretty fucking sure she won’t say one word about eating directly from the carton, I want to impress her, even if I’m being ridiculous.

  I grab the toast and cut it diagonally. Shit, I didn’t ask her what she wanted on it.

  So I cut a chunk of butter off the end of a stick in the fridge and put it on a saucer next to twin mountains of raspberry jam and orange marmalade, also from her fridge. The yogurt goes into a little porcelain cup with handles on both sides. I’m not entirely sure what it’s for, but that could be said of damn near half the dishes in her cupboards. They’re old and delicate, and they fit her perfectly.

  I eye the serving bowls, because they’re the only man-sized dishes in the whole place. I can’t help but feel gratified about that. Scarlett doesn’t usually have men in her apartment. Fine by me.

  I pick up the tray but put it right back down. Fuck, I need silverware, a napkin, and salt and pepper. The first two are easy, even though the napkin is cloth and pink. I guess I can be okay with the bright, cheery look it gives the tray.

  Then I turn to the wall of salt and pepper shakers. And, yes, I do mean wall.

  Christ.

  I didn’t notice them before when I was checking out her space. I thought it was just a wall of knickknacks, but the holes in the top of all of them help with the identification.

  Scanning the shelves they’re displayed on—like a shallow set of bookshelves—I try to find the most masculine-looking ones possible. I don’t give a shit that the napkin on the tray is pink. I am not serving her breakfast with kitten salt and pepper shakers. Fuck no. I have limits, because I have a dick and balls.

  Too many fucking choices. She’s got snowflakes and windmills and baby birds.

  Hurry up, the eggs will get cold. I drop to the next shelf. I will not choose two giraffes that look like they’re hugging at the neck. But I don’t hate them either. That one giraffe has game.

  So I grab one giraffe head and tap some of the contents into my hand. Salt. Excellent. Now I just need pepper.

  That’s when I spot them—a cowgirl and a cowboy on the bottom in the center. I recognize the busty cowgirl from the diner a few blocks from the club. Dolly’s.

  Huh. Did my good girl steal salt and pepper shakers from a restaurant? I don’t know why that thought makes me so fucking happy, but it does.

  I put the giraffe back and grab the cowgirl and her man and pop them on the tray. The red shirts don’t look all that great with the pink napkin, but I don’t care. I bring the entire tray into her bedroom to find the mug of tea on the nightstand and Scarlett lying back against the pillows with a small smile on her face.

  “Breakfast is served.” I carry the tray to her, but pause. I need something to set it on.

  “I have a stand thingy. It’s under the bed. I know, not a great storage space, but that’s where it fits.”

  I nod. “Good call. Hold on.”

  I set the tray on the dresser n
ear the door and drop to a knee at the side of her bed. There’s a frilly white lace skirt around the bottom that I lift up, and sure enough, there are clear tubs beneath it holding holiday decorations . . . and something wooden sits on top of them.

  “Got it.”

  I set it up on her lap and then grab the tray to slide it in front of her. “If you want anything else for your toast, I can get it. I forgot to ask.”

  But there’s no sound from Scarlett. I tilt my head to get a better look at her face, and her lower lip is slowly dropping.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  She shakes her head and lifts a hand to her mouth. “This is . . . no one has ever done anything like this for me before.” Scarlett looks up at me, and her gray eyes shimmer through unshed tears.

  “Please don’t cry. I’ll never cook again. I swear. Just, please, don’t fucking cry.”

  She presses her lips together and swallows before blinking a few times. “Dammit, Gabriel. You really do know how to surprise a girl.”

  The widest smile I’ve ever seen on another human’s face, including Bump’s on the day we got Roux, appears across Scarlett’s lips.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful. Just like this.”

  Her eyes lift again, and this time the tears threaten to spill over. “You picked Dolly and her cowboy. And you put my yogurt in a bouillon cup. I don’t even know what to say.”

  “I don’t know what a bouillon cup is, but I’m glad you like it.” I settle on the edge of her bed. “But you gotta tell me about the salt and pepper shakers. Because I’m willing to put money on the fact that you stole them from Dolly’s.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Scarlett

  I’m in complete shock that a man who is rumored to be as brutal as Gabriel Legend would put my yogurt in a bouillon cup and spend time picking out my salt and pepper shakers. That’s on top of the awe and wonder caused by him cooking me breakfast himself.