Page 17 of Striker
He hiked up an eyebrow but seemed satisfied. He stalked to the door and paused with his fingers on the handle. “No running off, all right? We’ve got things to talk about.”
She snorted. “I wouldn’t get far if I tried.”
He grinned, then exited the room.
Her shoulders sagged. He wanted to talk . . . and that made her more excited than it did nervous. Which made no sense.
No sense at all.
Angst wound Atlas’s muscles tighter than a corkscrew. He dragged his palm over his face as he drove down the street toward the restaurant he and the team had eaten at the previous day.
His muscles were aching, not only because he’d spent the night in that uncomfortable chair with a spring up his ass, but also because he couldn’t shake Molly’s state.
Sure, she was up and talking. He wouldn’t pretend that seeing her with some color in her cheeks hadn’t lightened the pressure on his chest.
The woman had been through a lot. The evidence was written on every bruise discoloring her pretty face and every involuntary jerk of her muscles. She was processing a shitload of trauma, and he was the wrong man to help her through it.
After pulling into the parking lot, he moved quickly across the sweltering pavement. It was already lunchtime and his stomach was demanding food. He ordered dishes of rice with chicken, beans, and plantains, as well as two bowls of chicken stew. He bought more jugs of water and got back in the car.
Back at the motel, he found Molly exactly where he’d left her. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her hair a wavy, sexy mess over one shoulder and her hands clasped in her lap.
“Hope you’re hungry,” he said, placing everything on the small dinette table pushed against the wall between the bathroom door and the closet near the entrance.
“Ohmigod, that smells amazing.” She rose to her feet. Her legs wobbled.
His muscles bunched with the need to rush forward and steady her, but he couldn’t fawn all over her, for god’s sake. She’d likely get sick of him constantly being on top of her.
She rested her fingertips against the wall next to the bed, steadying herself. “I’m fine,” she assured him.
Well, hell. He hadn’t done a good job hiding his concern. A smile stretched her lips, and she made her way to a chair at the table and sunk into it.
“You’re getting a lot of strength back,” he said. In truth, he didn’t like how weak she looked.
She beamed. “I appreciate you getting me food. I wish I had money, but?—”
He scoffed. “Molly. I can shuck out a few bucks for some meals. Don’t worry.” He passed her a box.
She accepted and lifted the top. The helping was bigger than her face. She picked up a fork and dug into the rice, hunger pushing out the nausea.
He sat across from her and did the same. Sweet sauce wafted to his nose, making his mouth water. “Try the pineapple salsa,” he said.
“Wow. So good.”
He grinned and studied her as he ate. There was more light in her eyes today. No doubt rest and fluids had done her good. The marks on her skin bugged the shit out of him, though. “Does that hurt?” he asked, pointing.
She brushed her fingers over her cheekbone and winced. “It’s pretty tender. Actually, I think it hurts more today.”
He grunted. “You should’ve told me. I have some anti-inflammatories.” He went to his bag and came back with a small bottle.
She shook out two little pills and tossed them back with water. “Thank you.”
“I probably should’ve gotten you ice, too.” Fuck, why hadn’t he thought of that last night?
She shrugged. “I don’t think it would’ve made much difference.”
They ate in silence for several minutes. Molly quickly slowed down, taking time between bites.
“Don’t worry if you can’t eat it all. We’ve got a mini fridge.” He nodded to the white rectangle next to the nightstand.
