Slow Motion

by Evelyn Adams

  “She won’t be alone. I’ll look after her.” Where the hell had that come from? Now that the words were out of his mouth, he couldn’t regret them. Especially not when he saw the way her expression shifted from disappointment to hope tinged with wariness.

  “And you are?” The doctor glanced between Emerson and Sophie.

  “Emerson Southerland. Southerland Security. I’m Ms. Taylor’s bodyguard.”

  Sophie’s eyes turned into indigo saucers but she didn’t contradict him, which was a clear indication of exactly how much she wanted to get out of the hospital.

  “You can spend the night with her and make sure to wake her up every two or three hours?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, not bothering to hide his grin.

  “I REALLY APPRECIATE YOUR HELP springing me from the hospital.” Sophie glanced across the black SUV to study the profile of the man who’d proclaimed himself her bodyguard.

  For all she knew, he was a sexy ax murderer. Or not. While he’d been listening to the discharge nurse’s instructions, she’d Googled him and Southerland Security. The firm was legit, and he matched the picture of the owner. There wasn’t a lot more information available but it was enough to convince her to trust him to take her home. She hated hospitals. Hated the smells. You’d think that kind of thing would be different, halfway around the world on a different continent. It wasn’t, and it took her right back to her mother’s illness.

  “You really don’t need to stay, though,” she said as he made the turn into the parking lot. She debated making a break for it and running up the steps to her apartment. The low-grade headache that could easily become more stopped her. The last thing she needed was another trip to the ER. Regardless of the fact that she couldn’t remember it, the first one had been bad enough. Knowing someone, presumably her attacker, had been the one to call 911 creeped her out. She planned to spend a lot of energy pushing that little nugget of info out of her mind.

  “Don’t be silly. I promised the doctor I’d take care of you. I’m going to take care of you.”

  Judging by the set of his jaw, she had a feeling no-nonsense Emerson Southerland made good on his promises. His broad shoulders—Australian footy built not American linebacker big—looked more than capable of carrying the world. But surely he wasn’t expecting to spend the night. She’d let him see her to her apartment. She was wiped out and still a bit unsteady on her feet. The extra attention couldn’t hurt and then he could go on his way and she could go to bed for ten or twelve hours. She’d call Connie and get her to check in every couple of hours to make sure she didn’t slip into a coma or something.

  “You can park here.” She pointed to her space on the side of the old Victorian that had been divided into a half dozen efficiency apartments. She’d have to get Connie to give her a ride later to pick up her car from the parking garage by the store, but she didn’t have the energy to think about that now. “I’m on the second floor.”

  Emerson parked and hurried around to the passenger side to help her, taking the bag with her belongings so she wouldn’t have to carry anything. Under normal circumstances, the invalid treatment would have bothered her. Given that he was doing all of this as a favor to her, it didn’t seem right to get mad at him. She had to admit having him follow right behind her on the steps was reassuring. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel his presence and knew if she needed him, he wouldn’t let her fall.

  Taking mental inventory of the state of her apartment, she paused in front of the locked door. She was pretty sure she’d done the dishes and the living room shouldn’t be too bad. Her bedroom was a disaster but he’d never get past the door. The idea of the handsome man in her bedroom with her made her pulse kick up in a way she was sure couldn’t be good for her. Nope, definitely not getting past the bedroom door.

  “Here.” He held her open purse out so she could grab the keys to her apartment.

  She’d half expected him to dig around and get them himself, but he simply held the bag and waited until she pulled out the cheap touristy boomerang keychain stamped with tiny kangaroos holding her apartment and car keys, as well as a key to the store. That was another weird thing about the break-in. As far as she could tell, nothing in her bag had been touched. She’d cancel her credit and bank cards just to be sure, but her wallet looked untouched down to the fourteen dollars she’d planned to use to buy her hot dog and fries. What kind of burglar didn’t take cash? The same kind who whacked someone on the head and then called the EMTs obviously.

  “What’s wrong?” Emerson stepped into her line of sight, concern etched in his hazel eyes.

  “Nothing. Just spaced out for a minute,” she said, pulling herself back to the present and away from the nightmare-inducing parts of her attack.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need me to take you back to the hospital?” He reached for her elbow as if he expected to march her back to the SUV.

  She moved out of his grip and jammed the key into the lock. Once she got inside, she’d be okay, and she could send him on his way. “Don’t you dare. I’m fine.”

  His expression said he thought the jury was out, but he moved out of the way so she could swing open the door. She breathed in the sandalwood and sage scent of the candles she loved and all the other scents that made the place smell like home. Something in her chest relaxed for the first time since she’d woken up in the hospital. The apartment was small—a postage stamp-sized living room with a galley kitchen, small bathroom, and a single bedroom—but considering some of the other places she’d lived, it was perfect. A bit of space was a small price to pay for working plumbing and meals that didn’t need to be cooked over an open fire.

  Emerson followed her into the living room, taking up way too much space next to her antique sofa. With its carved wooden legs and the panel across the back, she’d fallen in love with the Duncan Phyfe piece the moment she saw it in the secondhand store. It looked like doll house furniture next to Emerson.

  She watched him for a moment as he took in his surroundings. If she caught any disdain in his expression, she could kick him out of her space with a clear conscience, despite his Good Samaritan routine. Instead of looking down on her things, he gave the barest hint of a smile, as if he were charmed by what he saw.

  “Are you hungry? How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  Honestly, it was like the man spoke in nothing but questions. Questions she was getting tired of answering. Except as soon as he mentioned it, her stomach woke up and reminded her it had been hours since her last meal and that had been hospital food she’d barely touched.

  “I’m fine,” she said, as her traitorous stomach let out a growl. “I’ll fix myself a sandwich. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.” She grabbed his arm and tried to lead him to the door, but it was like trying to move a wall. She stood as good of a chance urging him out the door as she stood changing the way gravity worked.

  “Stop,” he said, slipping free of her grasp without even trying. “I said I’d take care of you and that’s exactly what I intend to do. The doctor said you weren’t supposed to be alone for twenty-four hours, so unless you’ve suddenly sprouted some friends or family you didn’t have earlier, I’m it.”

  The fact that he looked at least a little unhappy as he made the statement gave her some comfort. He might have invaded her space, but he wasn’t enjoying it, which was small consolation and made her feel like a bitch. She’d still be in the hospital without him. She thought about calling Connie and begging, but her boss had two kids at home. She’d never be able to leave them overnight and Sophie couldn’t bear the thought of going over there. She loved Connie’s kids but they were noisy and in a constant state of motion. Just thinking about it made her tired.

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding anything but grateful.

  “You’re welcome.” The curve of his lips made it clear he knew exactly how conflicted she was with his presence. “It’s just twenty-four hours—twenty-three now—and I�
��ll be out of your hair. Do you want to get a shower?”

  Now that he’d said it, there wasn’t anything she wanted more but there was no way on God’s great green earth she was going to get naked with him in her home. She could be in another room and it wouldn’t matter. It was like he was everywhere, taking up all the available oxygen, and she didn’t know him from Adam.

  “No,” she said, not missing a beat.

  “Okay.” He sounded relieved but she might be projecting. Exhaustion and near-death experiences did that to a person. “Go put on more comfortable clothing and I’ll make us something to eat.”

  The us finally unstuck her feet. She couldn’t expect him to go hungry when he was trying to help her. That and the fact that she was wearing the clothes she’d had on when she’d been attacked. She planned to burn them. She sure as hell couldn’t wear them again, regardless of how much she loved the charcoal pencil skirt.

  Careful to close the door behind her so he wouldn’t see the clothes piled on the chair beside her bed, she dug through her drawers for a pair of yoga pants that didn’t have a hole in them and a T-shirt long enough to cover her butt. Not that she cared what Emerson thought. She didn’t, but that didn’t stop her from taking a few minutes to stuff the scattered clothes into her closet and pull the comforter over the rumpled bed he’d never see.

  EMERSON OPENED THE refrigerator in the small but mostly tidy kitchen and looked for something he could feed them both without having to cook. The woman had already survived an attack. It would be rude to make her succumb to food poisoning because his cooking skills were nonexistent. He found stuff to make sandwiches behind the Styrofoam pack of boneless skinless chicken breasts and moved a blue ceramic cookie jar shaped like a fox out of the way so he could set them on the counter. On an uncharacteristically optimistic whim, he lifted the head off the fox but instead of cookies, he found batteries. Because where else would a person keep their batteries, he thought, smiling to himself as he rooted around for bread or buns—anything he could turn into a sandwich.

  Any cookies lucky enough to make it into his apartment didn’t last long enough to need a jar and his batteries lived in the bottom drawer beside the dishwasher he rarely had occasion to use. Everything in Emerson’s place—hell, his life—had its spot. It was organized and if he was being honest with himself, a bit too structured. Nothing like Sophie’s cobbled-together apartment with charm practically oozing from its original millwork and reclaimed furnishings. If someone had described the rooms to him, he would have assumed it felt cluttered, but it didn’t. There was something comfortable and well-lived in about Sophie’s surroundings.

  It made him wonder what her bedroom looked like. Did she have mountains of stupid pillows crowding the headboard? Maybe it was wrought iron with bars sturdy enough to hold on to. Not that he had any intention of finding out. Ms. Taylor was too young and too innocent for someone like him. He couldn’t see her as a one-night stand, and he’d given up on white picket fences a long time ago. It wasn’t that he didn’t think true love wasn’t real. He’d seen it firsthand with his cousins and then with his brother and sister. Hell, even his tough-as-nails employee, Liam, found a woman who could make him slow down long enough to become some kind of goat farmer.

  He seemed happy enough with Andy—happier than Emerson had ever seen him—but Liam was the perfect example of why love wouldn’t work for Emerson. His badass warrior employee fell in love with a farmer, which was great for now but what happened in six months? Liam had a crap ton of vacation time stockpiled, but eventually he’d have to either leave Andy and come back to work or convince her to leave something she obviously loved to be with him. He was ignoring for now that there might be an option he hadn’t considered, something in between. In his experience, in between usually meant choosing between two bad choices.

  None of which mattered. He didn’t have to figure out Liam’s love life. He just had to make sure he kept his own within parameters he could live with. It made sweet Ms. Taylor completely unavailable. He needed to turn his protective instincts toward feeding her and making sure she was okay and away from what her blue-eyed gaze would look like staring up at him from the imaginary pile of pillows on her imaginary bed.

  He covered three pieces of her weird multi-grain bread with turkey and paper-thin slices of Swiss cheese and smeared three more pieces with mayonnaise. He found a jar of pickles in the back of the fridge and added them to the sandwiches. Big-eyed owls watched him from the turquoise plates he’d found in the cupboard. It was like a ceramic peaceable kingdom in Sophie’s kitchen. Plopping the sandwiches—two for him and one for her—on the crazy cheerful birds of prey, he carried the plates to the coffee table just as she emerged from her bedroom. She closed the door behind her so quickly he barely caught a glimpse of the interior, but he didn’t see pillows or wrought-iron.

  “Here you go,” he said, pushing the plate toward her.

  “Thank you, but you don’t have to wait on me.”

  “Sit. I’ll be right back.” He paused long enough to make sure she followed his instructions before heading back to the kitchen for drinks. He’d seen some kind of fruit fusion water in the fridge.

  “How are you feeling?” He twisted open the cap on a strawberry-kiwi drink and handed it to her and then opened one for himself. It wasn’t bad—kind of like watered-down fruit juice. The rock star he been working for in Bali lived on something similar, except his was made with reiki-infused mineral water from a rare artisanal spring. And it probably cost ten or twenty times as much. Bali—what he’d seen of it—was gorgeous, but his client had been an interesting piece of work.

  “I’m okay. A little tired.” She picked up her sandwich, took a bite and made a face filled with so much pleasure, sandwich making might become his new thing. “God, this is good. I had all of this stuff in my kitchen?”

  “Yep, just waiting to become lunch.” It was just a sandwich, but he loved that he’d managed to make her something that she actually seemed to enjoy. It almost made him want to give cooking another shot. Almost. “It’s hard to sleep in hospitals—all the lights and weird smells. It makes sense that you’d be tired. Finish your lunch and then you can go to sleep. I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours. Don’t worry.”

  She nodded and took another bite of her sandwich while he tried to ignore her slender ankles and the curve of her calves in those stretchy yoga pants women seemed to love. She tucked her legs up underneath her, revealing the gentle swell of a truly fine ass, and he thought yoga pants were the kind of garment he could get behind—no pun intended. And he wasn’t looking at her ass. Not much anyway.

  Emerson polished off his second sandwich—turns out he actually could make something edible; the pickles had been a slice of genius—while she was still working on her first.

  “You really don’t have to take care of me,” she said, pushing the plate with the last of her uneaten sandwich away. “Hear me out. I know you gave the doctor your word, but you could just as easily wake me with a phone call. It doesn’t have to be in person.”

  He gave her the look he used when Andrews tried to weasel out of something, and she slumped back onto the sofa. He’d taken the wide armchair with the seat worn into a surprisingly comfortable U shape.

  “University of Western Australia? Is that where you’re from?” he asked, ignoring the instructions he had no intention of following to focus on the logo on her T-shirt. The oversized shirt swallowed her and he couldn’t help wonder if it was a leftover from an old boyfriend.

  “Not exactly. I didn’t go to college.”

  She looked wistful, and he waited for a moment to see if she’d offer any more information, either about the school or the guy the shirt belonged to.

  “But you’re from Australia,” he said, restating the obvious. She didn’t get that accent in North Carolina.

  “I grew up outside of Broome. I’ve been in the States for five years.”

  “On a work visa or do you have family here?” He d
idn’t think she had family close. If she did, he doubted he’d be the one waking her up every couple of hours.

  “Citizen.” She tipped her head to the side, curling in on herself.

  Given her accent, that was unexpected. He wanted answers but he could wait. The woman was exhausted. Playing caretaker didn’t do any good if he kept her from resting and made things worse.

  “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” He stood and held out his hand. “So you can sleep,” he added when he saw her hesitate.

  She took his offered hand, letting go as soon as she got to her feet. He followed her into her bedroom—normal number of pillows, no wrought-iron or signs of Velcro cuffs—not giving her enough space to close him out. Ignoring her protests, he turned down the covers on her bed and waited for her to crawl inside. She watched him as if she were afraid he might explode or pounce or some combination of the two, but she climbed under the sheet, visibly relaxing when he pulled the comforter up to her chin.

  Before he realized what he was doing, he leaned down to kiss her goodnight. Except it wasn’t night; it was late afternoon, and she wasn’t his to kiss. Opting for the less awkward of the possible choices, he detoured at the last minute and brushed his lips over the smooth skin of her forehead the way he’d done for his sisters the few times he’d been feeling sweet instead of tormenting them. Sophie watched him, her blue eyes as wide as the owls on her plates as he slowly pulled away.

  “Get some rest. I’ll be in to check on you in a couple hours.”

  He backed out of the room, closing the door behind him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, which it definitely was not. The feelings he was starting to have for Sophie were anything but sisterly. He spent a few minutes screwing around on his phone, checking emails and sending messages to his guys. He had a full roster of clients in addition to Seaton and there was always something that needed his attention. Glancing across the room, he noticed the game console and thought for a moment about trying to sign on as a guest, but he had work to do and it seemed unlikely she’d have anything he like to play. The Arrangement was the only thing he really took time to play and that was only occasionally to blow off steam. The game was a cross between a Victorian steampunk thing and sci-fi fantasy. It was the one time-wasting vice he allowed himself, and it had been days since he’d signed on.