His lips touch my temple, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. “I will never forgive myself for this, Ave, but maybe if I can take good care of you, I might have a chance at you forgiving me for being a selfish, thoughtless, insecure asshole.” I don’t have time to react before he releases me and turns off the water. “Let me get you a towel.”
He drapes one over my shoulders and grabs another for my hair before he wraps himself up and tells me he’ll be right back with a nightshirt. I sit there, feeling a little … stunned maybe. I don’t know how to categorize everything I’m feeling right now. I chalk it up to the medication and Declan’s new role in this uncharted territory of our relationship.
While I wait for him to return, I shuck off my bikini bottoms, wrap one towel around my torso, and use the other to dry my hair one-handed as best I can.
He returns less than a minute later with one of my long tank-style nightshirts and helps me into it. I keep a towel wrapped around my shoulders because my hair is still dripping.
Once I’m back in the chair, he wheels me to the living room and helps get me situated in my favorite spot in the corner of the couch. Then he makes sure I have all the pillows I need and that my arm and leg are comfortable.
He disappears down the hall and returns a minute later with my hairbrush and offers to brush it.
“I’m sorry I lashed out earlier. I was frustrated and taking it out on you.”
He pauses his brushing and settles a hand on my shoulder. “You weren’t wrong, though. I was being selfish and thoughtless. If I’d just been responsible, I would’ve been with you. It would have been me driving and you wouldn’t have been in that accident.”
I cover his hand with mine and squeeze. “You can’t know that, though, Declan. The exact same thing could’ve happened, and what if you’d been hurt too? Then it would be me feeling guilty for making you come with me. I don’t blame you for this; you were just a convenient outlet for my frustration. So please, Declan, don’t feel responsible for this, because you are not the one who put me here. That guy in the white pickup did.”
His hand slips out from under mine, and he resumes brushing, working his way up to the crown. “I wish I hadn’t let you down.”
“You didn’t, though.”
His voice wavers the tiniest bit. “But I did. We were supposed to go together, and I flaked out on you.”
I tip my head back and meet his sad gaze. “People make mistakes, Declan. It could have gone a lot of ways. Please don’t beat yourself up over this. I’m going to be fine, slightly bionic, but fine. I’ve been through worse and come out the other side, and so have you. I’m sorry I blew up at you. All I need is a little forgiveness and then we can move past it.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” He bows forward and presses his warm lips against my forehead. They linger there for several seconds.
He exhales a ragged breath and straightens, clearing his throat before he says, “I’m hungry. Want a grilled peanut butter sandwich?”
“Um, sure.”
He’s already heading for the kitchen.
He gets me a glass of water and makes me a sandwich. Once the food is handled, he scooches me forward so he can sit behind me and make good on that back rub.
“I thought you were giving me lip service and you’d call it quits at the sandwich,” I tease.
“Pfft. As if I’d dangle a carrot like that and then back out.” He pushes my nightshirt up and reaches for the jar of coconut oil.
“What’re you doing?”
“It’s easier to massage with oil.” He opens the jar one-handed—a skill I need to learn—and digs out a clump with his fingers.
“Ew! Why didn’t you use a spoon?”
“I just finished making you a sandwich. My hands are clean.”
“But I cook with that!”
“I touched your sandwich and you don’t seem to be complaining about that.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I’m not going to lick my fingers and dip them back in,” he reminds me.
I take a bite of my sandwich and shut my mouth, because he’s about to do something nice for me. I make a mental note to get new coconut oil when I’m back in cooking mode, though.
The movie plays in the background, and I’m only partially paying attention to it while I eat my sandwich and Declan works the knots out of my back.
I slump forward on the pile of pillows. “You really are great at this.” I rest my chin on the pillow, groaning my contentment as he works on a particularly tight spot between my shoulder blades. His hands are sure and the pressure steady.
“I took a two-day massage course back in college.”
“Really? Why?”
“Honestly?” His thumbs smooth up either side of my spine and back down again. “It seemed like a solid lead into foreplay.”
I bark out a laugh and then cough and groan because it makes my ribs hurt. “Only you would take a massage course so you could seduce women. It’s not like you need the help; you’re plenty good at it without all the bonus stuff.”
“Yeah, but I figure since I can’t give the women I take out anything of substance, I might as well give them the kind of good time they’ll remember, you know?” His tone is somewhat teasing, but underneath it there’s a layer of hardness, and if I dig even further, sadness too.
“You’re not incapable of substance,” I mutter, eyes at half-mast, lulled by the way Declan’s hands move over my back. “We’ve been friends for years; you’re insanely loyal.”
“It’s not the same as a relationship, though. Sex can become a weapon, and my parents used it on each other for years. I never want to put anyone else through that or have someone I care about disappoint me in such an extreme way. Sex is great as long as there aren’t any feelings tied to it, then it’s dangerous and complicated.”
I don’t think he means it as a warning, but part of me interprets it that way. Especially when I consider how much closer we’ve become recently. Couple that with the forced physical proximity and how well Declan has been taking care of me, and I can see how easy it would be to cross the lines of friendship. I clear my throat and make my response purposefully light. “Well, if one day you decide it’s okay for feelings and sex to mix, you’ll make some woman a great boyfriend. You grill a mean steak, you clean, you give massages, and you watch rom-coms. You’re like the ideal boyfriend candidate.”
I want to slap myself for the last part, especially when Declan pulls my nightshirt back down. But then he leans forward, and his warm, bare chest is suddenly pressed against my back, like earlier in the shower. And just like before, he wraps his arms gently around me, and that warmth courses through my veins.
I breathe in the scent of his aftershave and his deodorant. The clean laundry detergent smell mingles with my shampoo and body wash. I have to remind myself that he’s my best friend. That whatever I’m feeling is probably related to my lack of ability to manage my own needs.
“You’re the only person I would do this for.” I feel his warm exhalation on the back of my neck and then the soft press of his lips at the top of my spine. He releases me and slides out from behind me, jumping over the back of the couch. “I gotta take a leak. Be right back.”
The sudden loss of his proximity and his body heat makes me shiver. And for some reason, I feel that loss as more than a drop in temperature. It settles in my chest too.
10
FRIEND ZONE
DECLAN
I really need my body not to be an asshole. I stand with my fists propped on the vanity as I will my erection to deflate. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I growl at my reflection.
Half of my best friend is wrapped in fiberglass. Her body is covered in bruises. She can’t even wash her own hair, and I have a hard-on over rubbing her back. It doesn’t make any damn sense. Maybe it’s a guilt hard-on. Maybe I should let the guys take shots at my junk with a soccer ball the next time we play. Which won’t be for a long ti
me. Not for me. I refuse to get back on the field until Avery can get back out there with me.
I run a hand down my face—my bruise-free, undamaged face—and work at getting a handle on myself and my stupid hormones. Every time I look at Avery, I’m reminded of my stupidity. Of the selfish choice I made.
I think about the way she looked when I first walked into that hospital room. How puffy her face was, the black and blue bruises that colored her eyes and her cheeks, the full cast on her left leg and the one on her right arm. The way they had her in traction to keep her stable. How frail and broken she looked. How scared I’d been. It does the trick, deflating my traitorous, inconsiderate erection. When I’m under control again, I return to the living room. Avery is snuggled into the corner of the couch, arm propped on a pillow, leg elevated, head lolling forward—totally passed out while How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days plays on the screen.
The bruises are starting to heal, and she’s starting to look more like herself again. Even as battered and beat up as she is, she’s still beautiful—broken, but breathtaking nonetheless. I shake my head, trying to understand what the hell my problem is these days.
I don’t want to wake her, so I let her sleep through the rest of the movie before I move her back to her bed and tell her I’m sorry for the thousandth time.
* * *
The next day I spend hours in the kitchen making all of Avery’s favorite foods and enlist the guys to pick up things like chips and candy and her preferred chocolate bars. She can’t drink, so I make sure we have root beer and stuff to make smoothies, since that’s her jam.
Just before the guys come over, I help her move from her bed to her corner of the couch—which I’ve already arranged so she’s comfortable and has everything she needs.
Jerome and Mark arrive after six with pizza, beer, and a whole bunch of bags. They envelop her in awkward hugs.
“Guys, be gentle,” I warn.
“It’s fine, D. I’m good,” she assures me and pats the couch, inviting the guys to take a seat. “Tell me what’s going on. Did you guys play against the Jockstraps last week? Did you kick their asses?”
“We sure did, won by two goals. But everyone misses you.” Jerome pulls a giant cellophane-wrapped basket out of one of the bags and sets it on the coffee table. It’s filled with all of Avery’s favorite snacks. “Everyone chipped in and got you a recovery package. There’s a card too.”
“Oh wow! This is awesome!” She manages to tear the card open with one hand, reading through all the names and “get better soon” and “we miss you” messages from the team.
Her eyes get all watery, and she sniffles, holding the card to her chest. “This is so great. Tell everyone I said thanks. Deck, can you grab me a pair of scissors so I can get into this and check out all the stuff?”
“I can open it for you if you want,” Jerome offers.
“No, no. I’d like to do it. It’ll take longer, but it’s good for me to do things on my own, even if it’s as simple as opening a basket of goodies.”
My stomach twists at her somewhat embarrassed smile.
I grab the scissors from the kitchen and hand them to her. The guys are crowded around her, Mark sitting on the edge of the coffee table and Jerome on her right.
Her tongue peeks out, and she uses her leg to brace the basket and her casted arm to stabilize as she snips through the ribbon and peels the cellophane back. It takes her forever to get into it, but she doesn’t ask for help. It’s obvious that we all want to offer assistance, but the guys bite their tongues, because this is Avery and she’s always been the kind of person who likes to do things on her own.
There’s a very distinct theme, and most of the food items include peanuts or peanut butter. Under the treats are some non-food items. She pulls out a face mask and some lotions and girly things.
“A few of the girls thought you could use some pampering stuff for when you’re starting to feel better,” Mark offers.
“We didn’t want to discourage them, even though you’re not really into that,” Jerome adds.
“It’s really sweet, and by the time I’m back on my feet, I may very well want to be pampered. Declan’s doing a pretty good job of that, actually. I’m sure he’d be happy to help me manage a face mask and a foot scrub, right, D?” Her smile is sly and knowing.
“I’ll do one with you; that’s how much of a team player I am.”
Mark gives me a look I can’t quite decipher. I feel exposed and transparent today, like they can see through me. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense since I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m taking care of my best friend because she needs me. Yesterday’s reaction was a fluke. She was emotional and so was I. That’s all there was to it.
Eventually Avery needs to use the bathroom. She moves aside all the pillows and the blankets, intent on doing as much on her own as she can before she lets me step in to help.
She can almost manage getting from the couch into the chair on her own now. It’s only a matter of time before she’s ready for crutches, and then she’ll be able to get around a lot easier on her own. For now, I’m serving my penance and feel like I have some value. It doesn’t seem to matter that I know she’s right; even if I’d been the one driving, she might very well be in the same state or worse. The fact that I wasn’t there when she needed me still weighs heavy on my conscience.
I wheel her to the bathroom, making sure she has her phone. “You doing okay? Feeling tired or anything?” I ask once the guys are out of earshot.
“No, I’m good. It’s nice to have them here. Makes me feel normal.” We have the bathroom routine down and most of her modesty has gone out the window at this point.
I help her over to the toilet, and once she’s seated, she braces her foot on the floor and lifts enough to tug her nightshirt free. She’s wearing one of my old oversized hoodies over it—we cut off the sleeve so we can get her casted arm through it easily. The bulk hides her chest and the fact that she’s braless, which is her most frequent state—apart from when she occasionally tames her boobs with one of those strapless, claspless numbers that look a lot like a bandana or whatever. It’s also often what she wears when we manage the shower situation.
“Tell me if you’re getting tired and I’ll kick them out, okay?” I maneuver the chair so it’s not in the way.
“It’s the first time I’ve had the energy to stay awake past eight since I came home. I can sleep in tomorrow. I’ll text when I need you again.” She shoos me out the door.
The guys are half watching the game, half talking between themselves, at least until I return to the living room, which is when the conversation grinds to a halt.
“Anyone need a beer?”
I’m hoping this is one of Avery’s quicker bathroom trips, although none of them are fast considering how much she likes to try to do everything herself. She almost pulled the wheelchair on top of herself yesterday. She’s pretty damn stubborn when she wants to be, and I highly anticipate that she’ll try some maverick shit tonight.
When no one answers, I glance over my shoulder to find both of them staring at me. “What?”
“What all does Avery need help with?” Mark asks, eyebrow raised.
“She’s only got the use of one arm and one leg.” I uncap a beer and take a long swig. This is why I was apprehensive about having the guys over—that they would see exactly how much assistance Avery needs.
“So basically everything?” Jerome asks.
I cross the room and drop down on the couch. “It’s only for the next few weeks. Until she has some mobility back.”
Jerome, who is the most laid-back, slides an arm behind his head and leans back into the cushions. “So if she needs help with the bathroom, I’m guessing she also needs help with the shower?”
“Well, yeah, she can’t really do much on her own right now.” I don’t like their raised eyebrows and pursed lips. “She can’t wash her own hair, and she’s been frustrated enough with the whole process that she’s menti
oned more than once hacking it all off. I’d prefer if she doesn’t make drastic, emotional choices because she’s desperate to have her independence back. So I’m making it easier for her wherever I can, since it’s my goddamn fault she’s in the state she’s in.”
Jerome raises a hand. “Whoa, no one’s blaming you for this, Deck.”
“Yeah, well, we all know if I’d been with her, there’s a good chance she wouldn’t be in this state.” It’s better for me to lay it all out before they do.
Mark blows out a breath. “You can’t know that. We get that you feel bad about what happened, but we’re worried about how much you’re taking on here.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“She got hurt and you blame yourself. You’re spending a lot of time together and she’s relying on you for a lot of things. It changes the dynamic of the relationship,” Jerome says.
I focus on my bottle. “Nothing has changed, apart from the fact that she’s not capable of taking care of herself the way she likes to. That’s it. And that’s for the short-term. Soon she’ll be back on her feet and everything will be exactly how it was before.” But as I say it, I know it’s not really true, especially since we’ve been in more intimate situations than we ever have before. I’m just not ready to face what that means quite yet.
Thankfully my phone pings with a message from her, so they don’t have a chance to grill me any further about it. I set my beer on the table and head to the bathroom. When I get there, I find Avery already sitting in her chair.
“Look what I did!” She’s wearing a wide smile that lights up her entire face.
I can’t decide if I’m proud or pissed off, or something else entirely. “If you’d fallen, you could have hurt yourself. I think you have enough broken parts already, don’t you?”
“It’s like a two-foot drop to the floor, Deck.” She rolls her eyes. “Come on, you should be excited about this! It means I’m one step closer to being able to handle the bathroom on my own.”
When Sparks Fly Page 9
