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The night air bites cold. I guide him away from my Mini Cooper, hyperaware of every wince, every careful movement. I take his good hand, the left one, lacing our fingers together. His skin is warm, solid. Real.
He is such a good person. And he deserves so much better.
But for now, he's stuck with me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I call Reeves and tell him I need a few days. He doesn't argue—just tells me to take care of Julian and myself.
The first morning, I burn the eggs. Julian laughs from the couch, his cast propped on a pillow, and tells me they're perfect anyway. He eats every bite.
We fall into a rhythm. Coffee at nine.Friendsreruns until noon. Takeout for lunch. More TV. More talking. More just... being.
“I’m sorry I’m a crap cook,” I tell him.
He laughs. “You’re not a crap cook. You just need to learn,” he tells me. “And besides, you have many other lovely qualities.” He winks at me, and I blush a little.
I slap him for good measure. Not hard. Obviously. The man is injured.
“So your mom taught you to cook?" I ask, curled up beside him, my head on his good shoulder.
"Yeah. She worked two jobs, but when she was home, she’d make these elaborate meals. Said food was love." He smiles. "I'd sit at the table and watch her. She'd hum while she cooked. Always something by Celia Cruz."
"That's beautiful."
"She's beautiful." He kisses the top of my head. "You'd like her."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
I trace the edge of his cast with my fingertip. "Tell me about your dad."
His jaw tenses. "Not much to tell. He left. Never looked back."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I had everything I needed."
"Your mom sounds amazing."
"She is. Too bad she moved so far away,” he says. “But I promise you’ll meet her one day.”
I think about my own dad. How he'd take me for ice cream after school. How he'd let me paint his nails bright pink. How he died when I was still so young, and how I've been searching for him in every man since.
"My dad was a good man,” I say quietly, my voice catching on the words. "He died of pancreatic cancer when I was twelve. It was... it was fast. One day he was fine, and then three months later, he was gone," I explain. "Sorry, I know I've told you this before."
Julian's arm tightens around me. "That's so young… life is cruel sometimes."
"Yeah." My throat thickens. "I miss him every day."
"I'm sure he was proud of you."
"I hope so."
We watch three episodes ofSeinfeld. Julian does all the voices, making me laugh until my sides ache—he's really talented—he must have the ear for it. With his looks and talent, he could have been a movie star. For a few hours, I forget about Daniel. Forget about the threats. Forget about everything exceptthis man and his stupid impressions and the way he makes me feel safe.
That night, we make love slowly, carefully. His injured hand rests on my hip while his mouth explores every inch of me as he fills me from behind. I cry when I come, overwhelmed by how much I feel for him.
