Page 19 of Melting for the Firefighter
His almost-smile deepens.
I laugh, then cough hard enough to make my bruised hip throb.
Lance’s entire body tightens.
He reaches for a glass of water beside the bed and places it in my hand. The glass is full and cool, which means he must have brought it while I slept.
He waits until I drink half.
“I’m okay,” I tell him.
“The doctor said coughing is expected. She also said I bring you back if it gets worse.”
“Did you memorize the discharge papers?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Of course he memorized them. Lance probably reads instruction manuals before assembling furniture and keeps emergency batteries organized by expiration date.
I push back the blanket and stand.
My hip protests, but the room stays steady.
Cool air touches my bare thighs.
I look down.
The sweatshirt falls almost to my knees, but almost is doing important work in that sentence.
I am wearing underwear beneath it.
Only underwear.
Heat rushes into my face.
Lance goes very still.
His gaze drops.
He looks at my bare legs, then at the hem of his sweatshirt. Something hot and unmistakable moves through his hazel eyes.
For one suspended second, neither of us breathes.
I have spent years wishing I could disappear whenever a man looked at my body.
I do not want to disappear now.
Lance looks at me as though every soft inch is something he has no business wanting and cannot stop wanting anyway.
His jaw tightens.
“Breakfast,” he says roughly.
He turns and walks out before I can decide whether I am relieved or deeply offended by the existence of eggs.
