Five Days Grace (7 page)

Plus, she was cold. Gotta love what the cold did to a women's breasts.

"Still?" she asked, bringing his gaze up to hers. "You're bleeding. You're in pain. You're wet. You're cold. And what are you thinking about? Breasts?"

He shrugged, liking her for being so up front about him staring at her and giving him a hard time about it. "I was in the hospital for a long time. Pain, pain meds, no privacy, and then I was in rehab. Not for drugs or alcohol. For the injuries. Very little privacy there, either. You know what I mean?"

"You're really pissing me off now," she said.

"I'm sorry. I'm a rat. Here, I can't see anymore." He put up a hand between her breasts and his eyes. "And men are jerks. We're idiots."

"You're hurt. I did that to you—"

"Honestly, I don't think you did, and even if you actually did, I was holding a gun on you at the time—"

"Either I did it or you had to be a hero and pull a tree off an old lady, knowing you were still healing from what looks like a really nasty injury."

"I'd like to point out that I didn't do it single-handedly. I had help. She's probably seventy-five, Grace. She was bleeding and in a lot of pain. It was a compound fracture—bone sticking out through the skin. She needed to get to the hospital."

"Well, okay, but... Could you at least be more careful from now on?"

"Honey, you don't need to worry about anything as minor as this," he said. "Trust me. I'm hard as hell to kill."

* * *

Grace had been feeling foolish for being so mad and so worried about him. He was a complete stranger, after all. But from the looks of that scar, whatever had happened to him had been bad, really bad, and then he'd said,
I'm hard as hell to kill.

His face froze, and then he was just gone, so clearly not in the present with her, gone into the past instead. Grace didn't know how she knew, but she was sure she did, that he might be hard to kill—or more likely just lucky—but someone else had not been.

Someone had died.

It was written all over his face.

He'd been too surprised by what he'd said to cover up his reaction. And that wound was still raw, more raw than the scar on his hip.

He swore softly, his eyes shimmering with tears she was sure he'd never allow to fall.

Maybe it hit her so hard because she was seeing someone else in so much pain. Maybe it was the secrets she'd been keeping herself and feeling so alone for so long.

Whatever it was, Grace reacted on pure instinct. She just couldn't leave him there, all alone in his misery. She rose up on her knees, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. From there, she nestled in close against his bare chest and just held onto him as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry."

He was breathing quickly but deeply as his arms came up and locked around her, one of his hands in her hair, pressing her face against him. Despite the kind of illness he'd just gone through and the tough recovery he was having, he was still so reassuringly strong and solid.

And then, she knew.

"You're a soldier?"

"Sailor," he whispered. "Navy guys are sailors."

She just stayed there, holding him tightly, letting him hold onto her, and it felt as if he'd needed this—to be this close to someone—for a long, long time, and hadn't allowed himself the luxury. Maybe this was against his stupid man-code, too?

His breathing was ragged now, and Grace burrowed in as close as she could get. He'd been cold to the touch at first, and he smelled so good, like the rain. Grace thought he was trembling but couldn't be sure. She just wanted to make sure he didn't feel so alone, because she knew how awful it was to be hurting and all alone, secrets locked firmly inside.

"You can tell me," she told him. "If you want to. Anything you want. You don't have to, but I want you to know that you can, and I'll listen."

"I can't, Grace."

"Okay."

"Part of me wants to. I just can't."

"It's okay."

She hadn't been able to bring herself to talk to anyone either, until today. It had all just gotten too hard, and she hadn't been able to continue with the facade she'd maintained. She'd disappeared into the fog, and her life had taken this unexpected turn to a cabin in the woods and this man.

She held onto him until her knees against the cabin floor hurt and her thigh muscles protested maintaining that position for so long. She held on not just for him, but for herself, too, because it was so nice to be this close to another human being.

Eventually, his breathing slowed and his body warmed. He let his chin rest against her head and his hand move slowly up and down her back, comforting her, too.

Grace wanted to never move. She hadn't felt this good since Luc died.

No, not since a while before he died, before her life had taken that odd, wrong turn.

In this moment, she felt perfectly safe. How long had it been since she'd felt that way? That whatever came along, this man could handle it and keep her safe. That he would take care of her. Which was ridiculous, she knew. She didn't even know him.

A cell phone ring-tone broke the magic spell, startling both him and her.

He sat up straighter, letting go of her, and she eased away from him and sat down on the floor at his feet, absently petting the dog, who'd sprawled out on the floor beside her. Aidan turned to grab his phone, and she saw that the towel she'd pressed over his incision had somehow gotten lost in their embrace, and she'd gotten a bit of blood on this too-tight, borrowed T-shirt.

"I'm going to find a new shirt," she said, getting to her feet as he answered the phone. But he caught her by the hand and tugged her back as her brother's voice was broadcast through the room.

"Aidan? Zach McRae. I had a missed call from you. Everything okay there?"

She stood near the doorway, waiting, listening, as he took the call.

"Yeah, it's fine," Aidan said. "A tree went through the roof of one of the neighbor's cabins earlier, but your place didn't suffer any damage."

"Good. What can I do for you?"

"The woman in the cabin is named Maeve. She looks about seventy-five, living alone, just her and her dog, halfway around the lake from here. She's got a compound fracture and claimed there was no family to call. I wondered if you knew her. Knew anybody we should notify. Or knew anybody around here who might know."

"I've seen her before, but I don't know her family. You might want to try asking Ronnie at the store. Or Mr. Fisher, the mailman. He helped us find the owners of one of the empty cabins a few years ago when a bunch of shingles blew off, leaving a hole in the roof."

"Okay. Thanks. I will. And I should tell you, I ended up taking care of her dog temporarily. I hope nobody who comes here is allergic."

Zach laughed. "No, we're good. Does she still have that tiny little yippy thing?"

"I wish."

"No, you don't. He never shut up," Zach said. "But I'm glad you're helping her. Don't worry about the dog being there. Nobody minds."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Call me if you need anything," Zach said.

Aidan clicked off the phone and put it away. "So," he said to Grace. "We're both who we said we were."

She nodded, now a bit embarrassed about giving in to the need to wrap herself around him the way she had. So she just kept talking. "And now, we're going to fix your side. Tell me there's a first-aid kit somewhere."

"There are some supplies in the bathroom behind the mirror, but I brought some things of my own. Second drawer on the left side of the sink in the kitchen. But first..." He reached into his duffle bag, pulled out a flannel shirt and tossed it to her. "Here. Wear this. It's warm and..."

"Won't make me look like I've entered a wet T-shirt contest, just haven't gotten wet yet?"

He gave her a wry grin. "I'm trying not to be a jerk, maybe not scare a nice woman trapped in a tiny cabin with me by a bad storm, one I already pulled a gun on."

"I'm not scared of you anymore," she told him.

"Good. I'm also trying really hard to get the image of you in that T-shirt—wet, because in my head, it's wet now—out of my head. Please, put the nice, big flannel shirt on, Grace."

She held onto it, but didn't put it on. "I think we need to make a deal. I'll wear this, if you agree to find a spot and sit while I clean and bandage your side, build a fire and find us something to eat."

"I told you, I'm not some damned invalid," he said.

"You want me in this?" She held up his shirt.

He made a face, one that might have been pure admiration. "You're tougher than you look."

"Yes, I am. People always think I'm a pushover at first, but I'm not. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal," he agreed.

Chapter 4

Moving slowly and carefully, Aidan got into his dry, warm, wool socks, then found an extra pair for Grace. Her feet had to be freezing. Then he pulled on the gray sweats he'd put on the bed and grabbed a flannel shirt that he carried into the front room with him.

Grace, mercifully, was in his shirt now, which was big and loose on her, and a pair of sweats that probably belonged to a kid who was maybe twelve. She looked adorable and still so damned sexy.

Disheveled worked on her in a big way.

If she'd come here with him, and they'd gotten trapped inside by the rain, he could imagine long, lazy days spent in bed, her getting up and grabbing his shirt to put on to keep warm, and ending up looking just like this.

God, she was pretty and so sweet. Having her wrap her arms around him and just hold on had nearly been too much for him to handle with any kind of composure.

Looking around the room, he noticed that she'd piled wood in the fireplace already and lit it, and it seemed to be catching nicely.

"Nice fire," he said.

"You mean, for a girl?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I was a Girl Scout. I can build a fire."

"Did you get your first aid badge, too?"

"Yes, I did," she said proudly.

"Then it's my lucky day. I can't imagine a more useful person than you breaking in here." He held up the socks. "I brought these for you."

"I found socks in the other room."

"Not as good as these. They're made for serious cold."

"Okay. Thanks." She took them, then stared at him with a frown. "You have to know, given the position of that incision, that this would be easier if you were lying down. Like back there on your bed."

"I know," he admitted.

She laughed, a short, cynical burst. "Are we back to that manly-man crap?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously." He shook his head. No room for manly-man crap here.
Shit.
"Grace, I was in the hospital for a long time, and smells... medicine-y smells are... a problem. I thought maybe in here I'd smell the smoke, the fire, more than anything else."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't even think."

She looked like it hurt her just to hear his explanation, and he wished he hadn't told her that, because he certainly didn't want her feeling sorry for him.

"Well," he suggested, "I guess if you really want to help, you could put that T-shirt back on and head out into the rain. Believe me, that would be enough to make any man forget anything else that was going on."

"Why don't we try the smell of the fire first?" She leaned back against a doorway to pull on his wool socks over her pink-painted toenails and delicate-looking feet. "I'll gather my first aid supplies and be right with you."

He walked to the recliner by the fire and carefully lowered himself into it. She was right. It wasn't going to be easy for her to get to his wound with him sitting here. So from the chair, he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out in front of the fire. He rolled the waistband of his sweatpants down on one side to bare the incision, frowning at how much skin he was showing to a woman who was doing nothing but trying to be kind. And he felt a stray worry about just how much he'd enjoy having her touch him, even as nothing but first aid. Or, worse, that it wouldn't do a thing to him. Nothing had so far, since the crash. Finally, he draped his shirt strategically across his hips, all he could think to do, just in case.