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“Knock yourself out,” he finally said.
Feeling ridiculously relieved to have something to keep her hands busy, she turned to the task. He had a few pairs of jeans, a half-dozen colored T-shirts and a handful of sweatpants—all one-legged like the pair he was wearing. The sum total of his clothing wasn’t enough to fill even two of the six dresser drawers, and the pair of athletic shoes and scuffed cowboy boots didn’t come close to filling the floor of the bedroom closet.
Aside from a small leather shaving kit, the rest of the duffel was crammed with books, which explained the weight.
Hardbacks. Paperbacks. Some that looked brand new and others that looked as if they’d seen the wear from hundreds of hands. She stacked a bunch of books on the nightstand next to the bed, where they’d be in easy reach for him. “You’re a reader.” And an eclectic reader, to boot. He had everything from the latest thriller topping the bestseller charts to political commentaries and biographies to classic literature.
He shifted against the pillows, and she couldn’t help but see the way a thin line of white formed around his tightly held lips. “So?”
She adjusted the high stack. “Don’t get defensive. It’s just an observation.” She left the rest of the books in a stack on the dresser. “And not that it looks like you’ll run through all of these anytime soon, but I have a pretty loaded bookcase myself in the living room, too. You’re welcome to help yourself. Do you prefer to get around with wheels or these?” She held up the crutches.
“Those,” he said immediately. “Get rid of the chair altogether.”
“All right.” She propped the crutches right next to the bed, between the headboard and the nightstand. “Besides the books, feel free to help yourself to anything else around here.”
He lifted his eyebrow again, giving her a long look, and she pressed her lips together. He was toying with her. “Food-wise and such,” she clarified. “I’ll get you set up with a meal before I have to go to the hospital for my shift and bring Plato in so you can meet him. He’s gotten spoiled and used to having this bed for his own, but he’s a smart boy. You just tell him to stay off and he will.”
“Plato?”
She realized she was speaking so fast she was almost babbling and hated giving him any evidence that she was unsettled by his presence. “My Saint Bernard. He’s out in the backyard right now.”
“You didn’t have a dog before.”
“I didn’t own a house with a yard before,” she returned.
“No.” His gaze felt heavy on her face. “You had that apartment.”
Her throat suddenly felt dry and she swallowed, folding her arms over her chest. His gaze seemed to focus on them. Or on the achingly tight breasts that they were pressing against.
Probably her imagination.
Hopefully, just her imagination.
It was difficult enough ignoring her attraction for him, without thinking that he still carried some for her, too.
“What, um, what do you like to eat?”
His eyebrow peaked.
“For lunch,” she added doggedly.
“There’s nothing that I don’t much like.”
She moistened her lips. “You’re not exactly helping me here, Mason. If I came in here with brussels sprouts, would you be loving them?”
His expression suddenly lightened, and a faint smile toyed around his surprisingly lush lower lip. “Honey, as long as I don’t have to cook ‘em, I’ll be damn happy to eat ‘em.”
She exhaled and rolled her eyes. “Spoken like most men,” she said wryly and headed out of the bedroom, taking the wheelchair with her.
She didn’t breathe again, though, until she reached the privacy of the kitchen, and once she did, it took considerable effort not to collapse on a chair and just sit there.
But she hadn’t been exaggerating to Mason. She did have to get to work soon.
Just because her bank account was going to be dancing a jig before this was all over and Mason went on his way in a few months, didn’t mean that she didn’t have to earn her regular wages.
She folded the chair and stowed it in a closet, then moved past the ladder-back chairs surrounding the kitchen table that was tucked into the small bay overlooking her backyard, and pulled open the refrigerator door. Until recently, she’d never made much effort at cooking for herself. She’d never had to. It was always so easy just to drop by her folks’ place, or one of her other relatives’, and grab a bite when she was looking for some home-cooked food.
But things were changing. Takeout and scavenged meals weren’t going to do. So, after she’d moved into the house, she’d begun making an effort, and now her refrigerator was well stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables. She had a chicken casserole that she’d made the day before, as well as sliced pot roast, and she chose the thick, sliced beef to make two sandwiches for Mason. She added a sliced apple, a glass of water and a thick wedge of peach pie that she couldn’t take credit for since Ryan had brought it over.
Not giving herself a moment to dither over the meal—and dither she would, if she allowed it—she arranged everything on a sturdy wooden tray and carried it back to the bedroom, stopping only long enough to grab up the envelope with his meds and tuck it under her arm.
She breezed into the bedroom, her footsteps hesitating when she found him with his nose in a book, a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched almost incongruously on his aquiline nose.
Why she found the sight so particularly touching, she couldn’t say. But she did. Which just meant that she had to push a brisk tone past the tightness in her chest. “I have soda or iced tea, if you want something to drink other than water.” She tossed the envelope on the foot of the bed and grabbed the well-used folding lap table that she’d already had on hand and deftly set it over his lap, sliding the tray on top of it. “Or beer,” she added, remembering that had been his preference before. “Though, you really shouldn’t have alcohol right now.”
She glanced at him, waiting, and found him watching her, his glasses and book set aside. “What?” she asked.
“How’d you do that without spilling the water?”
Surprised, she looked down at the lap tray and meal. “Practice,” she said simply. “So … what do you want to drink besides water?”
His gaze passed her to land on the envelope lying near his foot. His lips tightened a little and he looked back at the meal. “Water’s all I need.” His jaw slid slightly to one side, then centered again. “Thank you. This looks good. I was half-afraid you’d be bringing in brussels sprouts.”
She smiled slightly. “Behave yourself and I won’t have to.” She picked up the envelope and poured the bottles out into her hand. “When was your last dose of antibiotics?”
He didn’t look up from the food. “Before I left Connecticut.”
Which meant too many hours. She set all but two of the bottles on the nightstand, where they’d be in easy reach for him, and poured out his doses, setting them on the tray. “You missed a dose.”
“I’ll live.”
“What’s your pain like?”
He bit off a huge corner of thick-sliced bread and tender beef and shrugged.
Macho men.
“On a scale of one to five,” she prodded. “Five being the worst.”
“Twelve,” he muttered around his mouthful.
She wasn’t particularly surprised. She could practically see his discomfort oozing out of his pores. “Good thing you’re eating,” she said and popped the lid off his painkillers. “It’ll help keep your stomach settled with this stuff.”
He lifted his hand, stopping her before she could drop one on her palm. “Throw the damn things down the toilet. I don’t need ‘em.”
She gave him a look. “Twelve?”
His gaze slid over hers, then away. “Fine.” His voice was short. “I don’t want them.”
“It’s not a sign of weakness to need—”
“I said no.”
She slowly put the cap back on the bottle, sensing that this was about something other than macho posturing. And, judging by the way he was holding himself even more stiffly than before, that he didn’t want her prying.
Which told her more than words could have said, anyway.
“Fair enough.” She set the bottle next to the others. “But you don’t have a choice about those,” she said firmly. She pointed to the two pills next to his plate. “If you want your bones to heal, you’ve got to beat back that infection once and for all.” She headed to the doorway. “I’ll go get Plato.”
Mason watched Courtney stride out of the room.
It was a helluva thing that he was almost more interested in the damn pill bottle within arm’s reach than he was in watching the particularly enjoyable sight of her shapely form moving underneath the thin pink fabric of her scrubs.
He swallowed the last of the first sandwich, leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Too easily, the night they’d spent together came to life in his mind.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and opened his eyes again.
Since the moment he’d thrown McDougal’s daughter, Lari, to safety, he’d been in hell.
Coming to Weaver was just one more layer of it.
There was no future for Courtney with him, and she was the kind of woman who deserved futures. She was young and beautiful and caring and came from a strong, close family.
He was past young, scarred on the inside as well as the out, and the only family he knew—or who mattered to him—was the family of Hollins-Winword.
It was a fact of life that was easy enough to remember when he was a continent or two away from her.
But sprawled across a bed under her roof?
That was an entirely different matter.
“Plato, come meet Mason.”
He heard her voice before her footsteps and then she reappeared in the doorway with a gigantic Saint Bernard at her side.
“You didn’t get a dog.” Mason eyed the shaggy beast. “You got a damn horse.”
She grinned, bringing a surprising impishness to her oval face, and tucked her long, golden hair behind her ear. “He’s a big boy,” she agreed. Her fingers scrubbed through the dog’s thick coat and the beast’s tongue lolled with obvious pleasure. “But he’s a total marshmallow. He’s four and very well behaved.” She stopped next to the bed and gestured to the dog, who plopped his butt on the floor and looked across the mattress at Mason with solemn brown eyes. “Mason’s a friend, Plato.”
Mason stuck out his good hand and let the dog sniff him. Evidently satisfied, the dog slopped his tongue over Mason’s fingers and thumped his tail a few times.
Courtney smiled, then looked at the watch around her wrist. “I’ve got to get to work.” Her gaze skipped over Mason and around the room. She picked up the cell phone that Axel had left. “I’m adding the number at the hospital,” she said as her fingers rapidly tapped. “Plus my own cell number.” When she was finished, she set the phone on the nightstand. “But I’ll warn you—cell service isn’t always the greatest around here. There’s a landline in the kitchen, though.” She patted her hip. “Come on, Plato. Back outside.”
“Does he always stay outside?”
Courtney shook her head. “Not always. But I don’t want him disturbing you.”
Mason leaned forward a little, rubbing his hand over the dog’s massive head. “He’ll give me someone to talk to.”
She smiled slightly. “Well. He is pretty good company. I’ll pop back home when I get my dinner break, but it’ll be pretty late.” She headed toward the doorway. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, though. If I can’t make it over, there’s always going to be someone who can.” She gave a faint wave and disappeared.
Mason looked from the doorway to the pill bottles on the bedside table to the dog, who was watching him as if he could read his mind.
“Don’t you worry, Plato,” Mason muttered. “Soon as I get these casts off, I’ll be out of here.”
And away from temptation.
He looked from the prescription bottle back to the empty doorway.
Both temptations.
“It sounds like the perfect opportunity for you.” Lisa Pope, the other nurse who shared the emergency room’s night shift with Courtney, leaned her elbows on the counter and smiled. “Keep an eye out for a patient while he heals up and collect room and board at the same time.”
Courtney didn’t look up from the medical chart she was updating and smiled a little wryly. “It does sound perfect,” she agreed. In theory.
“Sounds perfect,” Lisa prompted. She raised her eyebrows. “What’s the problem?”
Courtney shook her head. “No problem.” None that she intended to share.
Lisa leaned closer over the desk. At the moment, the Weaver Hospital’s emergency department was quiet. “He must not have a wife, or he wouldn’t need care. So is he handsome?” Her eyes danced wickedly.
“Whether he is or not is beside the point. He’s a patient.”
Lisa sighed noisily and straightened. “Honestly, girl. You are twenty-six years old, so beautiful that other women ought to hate you, and I swear you live the life of a nun. It’s practically criminal.”
Courtney gave a laughing snort. “Why does it matter to you? You’re besotted with your husband, and you know it.” Lisa and Jay even had a darling little girl, Annie.
Lisa lifted her shoulder. “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean a little vicarious living is out of the question. So … handsome or not?”
Courtney gave a huge sigh and closed the chart. “Mason is—” She broke off, trying to find a good word to describe the man and failing entirely. “Handsome enough.” She settled on the adjective, just because it was expedient. Despite the scar on his face, he was a striking man. Not handsome exactly, because he had a certain aura of … darkness around him. “More importantly, he’s a patient.”
Lisa made a face. “Well. At least tell me you’re going to spend the extra money you’re earning on something more interesting than fresh paint for your house trim. For nine months, all you’ve talked about is that house of yours.”
A laugh started to bubble in the back of Courtney’s throat.
Nine months.
It was almost funny.
She looked across the counter at her coworker and friend and shrugged casually, hiding the squiggle of excitement inside her. “What can I say? It’s my home. I want it to be perfect.”
Perfect for when it wasn’t just her living there.
Then she waved her hands in a shooing motion as she turned her attention back to paperwork that needed to be completed ASAP. “Now, we’d better get back to work or the boss lady around this place will have our heads.”
They both grinned, because the boss lady who ran the Weaver Hospital happened to be Courtney’s mother, Dr. Rebecca Clay. But the grins didn’t last long because the doors to the E.R. slid open, and Courtney’s sister-in-law, Mallory, strode inside, shrugging out of her jacket as she moved. “Got a high-risk mom coming in by air,” she greeted as she moved rapidly across the tiled floor past the desk where Courtney and Lisa were. “They’re at least ten minutes out.”
Courtney was already following her. “I’ll call the team.” She didn’t even look back to see Lisa assume her seat at reception.
