“Your dad living around here?”
“No. Not that far, though. Davenport.” I sense the weight of his questioning gaze, and I force a smile as I look up from straightening the T-shirt as best I can. “My mom is French. She lives in France.”
Both his dark brows shoot up, and he opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.
“Let me help you get out of those clothes.”
His mouth flaps. He snaps it closed, but his eyes go round. “Help me?”
“So that you don’t have to get up.”
“I’m…okay. I got this. Really.”
Wait, is he blushing? Is that color in his cheekbones?
It’s…cute.
Oh God.
“I’ll leave you to it, then, and start some dinner.” Turning around, I head to the kitchen and open the fridge to check what I could cook up. At least, that’s where my thoughts should be at.
Not on the guy in the other room. Not wondering what his bare chest looks like, what he looks like naked.
Because the one I want is Fred, and that’s all there is to it.
***
When I walk back inside fifteen minutes later, water for the pasta heating on the stove and the sauce simmering, I fully expect to find him asleep again.
He’s not.
He’s fumbling with the belt of his jeans, his sodden T-shirt already off. He’s bare-chested, yes, and that stops me in my tracks—not because his chest, shoulders and arms are thick with muscle and sculpted like a work of art, no, that’d be crazy—but because of the ink covering them.
A lot of ink. Dark, twisted, tangled—faces and demons and beasts on his chest and shoulders. And a snake, I realize. A snake on one shoulder, fangs dripping, forked tongue lolling.
The men I’ve known in my life were never covered in tattoos like him – and such scary ones, too. It’s a little disturbing.
And fascinating.
Maybe that’s why it takes me a while to realize he’s struggling to push down his pants and not quite managing. His teeth are gritted, and his face is white.
Crap, he’s in pain.
That snaps me out of my slight daze—a daze I have no job being in—and I hurry over to help him.
“Here.” I kneel on the carpet and start on the ankles. “Let me.”
He hasn’t even taken off his boots, and really, Manon, if his leg hurts so much, how is he going to do this on his own? I shouldn’t have listened to him when he said he could handle it.
I take the boots and wet socks off. He’s still trying to push down his jeans, hands shaking. I really don’t like how pale he is.
“Stop pushing them down like that,” I mutter. “The fabric bunches up and makes it harder to get them off. Let me do it, it will be easier from this end.”
“Okay.” He lets his hands drop at his sides and puffs out a long breath. I work the sodden fabric over his feet and gently pull. He lifts his pelvis slightly to allow the pants to come off. He’s wearing black boxer briefs underneath, and for some reason my face gets hot at the sight of them.
And the bulge between his legs. Yeah, not looking at that. At all.
His legs. Safer place to look. Nicely muscled thighs, which are revealed as the jeans come off, really thick and cut, and…
A knee brace, the black material digging into the flesh.
“You said your leg was broken. When did it happen?”
“Two months ago. Right after Asher’s wedding. Had the cast taken off two weeks ago.”
Shit. No wonder he has trouble walking. “And the knee brace?”
He hesitates. “Long story.”
Huh.
“Well, broken bones can affect joints, and your knee is swollen. Need to ice it.” I pull his jeans all the way off. “I think I have one in the freezer.”
He’s hunched over, hands braced on the sofa. Silent.
Without waiting for an answer, I jump to my feet and rush back to the kitchen. To check the pot, I tell myself. That’s the only reason.
The water is boiling, so I throw the pasta in, and I turn off the heat under the sauce pan. I take out dishes, silverware, paper napkins and glasses. Can’t remember the last time I had dinner here with someone.
Have I ever done it? I doubt it. I’ve never been here much, always at practice and rehearsals and—
I put everything down on the counter and bite my lip, my eyes stinging. Looks like I’ll have much more time to enjoy my apartment. To think about my future. Find something else to busy myself with.
But how can I? When this is what I wanted all my life to do?
Clenching my teeth, I grab everything again and march back into the living room, to the dining table, and slam the things down.
And oh crap, I forgot the compress.
Back to the kitchen. I find the compress in the depths of the freezer from a time a few months back when I sprained my ankle. Wrapping it up in a clean kitchen towel, I head back, then remember I must have codeine pills in my cupboard, too, and I made a detour at the bathroom to get them.
Seth is still where I left him, although he’s meanwhile pulled the old T-shirt on, covering his ink.
He gives me a quizzical look. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Perfectly fine.” I force a smile and realize he probably shouldn’t wear the pants yet if he’s going to use the cold compress—and that sitting at the dining table probably isn’t the best idea right now. “Here, use this.” I put the wrapped-up compress on top of his knee, and he hisses softly. “I’ll be right back.”
I drain the pasta, throw it in a bowl, serve the sauce in another and return. He watches me, supporting the compress on his knee with one hand, as I place the food on the low coffee table in front of him, then go grab the rest of the things from the dining table.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he says quietly, and I can’t read his expression.
“It’s nothing much. I hope you like pasta with cheese and mushroom sauce.”
“Oh sure.” His stomach rumbles loudly as I serve the spaghetti onto the plates and ladle the sauce over them. That hint of color rises to his cheeks again, and I catch myself staring.
Again.
“Let’s eat, then,” I tell him, and he flashes me a bright smile. “I’m famished.”
And to be honest, a little bit confused.
***
After a while, I notice he’s not eating all that much. One of the few things I know about guys is that they are like black holes, inhaling every scrap of food on the table, including that on other people’s dishes, so this can’t be normal.
“Not hungry after all?” I ask when he puts down his fork and leans back.
“Nah.” He shifts his leg and grimaces. “Not really.”
“The compress not helping?”
He shakes his head. “I was on my way to get some ibuprofen when we, uh.” He waves a hand. “Met.”
Of course, where’s my head? If he’s still in pain, it’s no wonder he has no appetite.
“Let me get you some painkillers.” I get up to get the pills from the dining table where I left them. “Codeine will help. Ibuprofen won’t do much.”
“I know,” he bites out.
“They must have prescribed something stronger for you at the hospital.”
He shrugs and looks unhappy, that generous mouth turning down at the corners. “I don’t need stronger stuff. No addictive shit. No way.”
Still, he accepts the pills when I put them in his hand and swallows them down, chasing them with a sip of water. I take away his half-full plate and put it in the fridge. Easy to reheat later on, if he wants it.
He’s glaring down at his knee when I return. I sit down beside him and put my hand on it.
He flinches and scoots back, pressing into the sofa. “What?”
“That brace has to come off. It’s useful when you walk, but when you rest, better remove it.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I had some basic first aid training.” And seen a lot of injuries—part and parcel of a dancer’s training. You learn a few things over the years.
I reach for the brace again, and he says nothing as I undo the straps and ease it down, though he can’t help a grimace. The skin is hot to the touch. I pull the brace off, trying to decide whether it needs a second compress.