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I reach for the wrought iron handle, and the door glides like silk along its track. “I like this.”
“It’s functional and pretty, just like me,” Lila teases. “But the best part is the shower.” She slides frosted glass doors open to reveal the charcoal gray enclosure. “Tyson lowered the lip to just three inches, so it’ll be easy to step over, and he elevated the slope a bit to drain the water faster. And the best part is the bench.” She points to a built-in tiled bench down one side of the shower. “He installed multiple handheld shower heads, handrails, and recessed lighting. We got Mark a walker for the shower because it’s more stable on a wet floor than crutches, so tell him not to have a meltdown. I’m not insinuating he’s frail.”
I’m amazed by the tile work. “Very impressive. It looks like it was built this way originally.”
She nods. “Tyson did a fantastic job. He’s really nice, too. And he’s single.”
I whip my head toward her. “Seriously? I’m not even home and you’re already trying to set me up?” I fume. “Fine. Maybe this guy will at least wait until the food arrives to be a jerk.”
Guilt hits me as soon as the words leave my mouth. All Lila wants is for me to heal. She thinks – hopes – a healthy relationship will help me move forward, the way her relationship with Tucker helped her. Unfortunately, her love has blinded her to one insurmountable problem: with my plethora of issues, I’m not relationship material.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m just tired and cranky.” I step to the other side of the bathroom, and my guilt grows as I survey all their hard work. A handicapped-accessible toilet and new handrails gleam, and reclaimed wood shelves line the wall by the sink. Lila and the guys have been busting their asses because they love us, and I’m biting her head off for an innocent comment. “Sorry,” I repeat.
Lila squeezes my shoulders from behind me and presses her cheek to mine before changing the subject. “The shelves are for baskets for his personal items,” she explains, pointing to empty baskets on the counter. She gestures to the wall dividing the shower from the toilet area. “We could mount hooks here for his towel and clothes. We’ll pick up toiletries today.” Then she smiles, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s go check out your former office.”
I sigh. “I’m afraid to look.”
I’m pleasantly surprised by the updated space. They’ve painted the walls a warm grey, and the right side of the room is all floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Motivational prints line the space. The largest one, about eight feet wide, seizes my attention with its bold lime background. Emphatic charcoal lettering quotes Mohammed Ali: “The only limitations you have are the ones you place on yourself.”
Despite the staggering amount of equipment, the long room still looks spacious. Lila describes each piece as she works her way around the room. “An inclining treadmill for after his prosthesis. A stability ball to rebuild his core. A leg press. Some super-fancy home gym machine with pulleys and cables and weights and bars. You can do lifts and pull-downs and probably julienne fries.” She shakes her head. “The boys insist it’s very important, but all their drooling makes me suspicious. And this medieval torture device,” she places one hand on a thick metal post studded with multiple bars, “is, and I quote, a ‘power tower’. Apparently it’s for advanced core work.” She continues pointing items out with one slim finger. “Weight bench and rack with dumbbells and barbells and crap.” She grins. “Incidentally, this stuff should never be referred to as ‘crap’ in their presence. It’s ‘important guy stuff’.” She rolls her eyes and gestures around the room. “Whatever. I run thirty miles a week and have washboard abs without any of this.”
“Washboard abs,” I mutter. “If I didn’t adore you, I’d kill you.”
Lila grins. “If it makes you feel any better, I only work out so I can eat anything I want.”
“It doesn’t.” I actually enjoy running. It quiets my mind, something that’s a real challenge for me. Having said that, I’m not running thirty miles a week or doing two hundred sit-ups a day like Lila. I’ll stick to my twice-weekly runs and my Pilates.
“Speaking of eating, your fridge and cabinets are completely bare.”
“I’ve been gone for three months. Of course there’s no food in the house.”
She snorts. “I cleaned out your fridge months ago. You might still have a jar of mustard, but since you don’t like it, I don’t understand why you have it. And you know those non-perishables you’re supposed to keep on hand for blizzards, like pasta, soup, and canned goods? You had none of that, and you left during the height of blizzard season. Much like your office, your kitchen was mostly decorative. We’re going grocery shopping. I’m starting a list.”
I roll my eyes. “I have mustard because Tucker likes it. And how can you be this excited about shopping at the ass crack of dawn?”
My leggy blond lifesaver smiles broadly. “Because you and Mark are finally coming home. Now haul your skinny ass upstairs and lie down. I’ll come get you in a few hours.” I open my mouth, but Lila shakes her head. “No arguments. Besides, the stores aren’t open yet. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”
I know when I’m beaten, and frankly, I’m too exhausted to do anything but surrender. I hug her tightly. “Thank you, Lila. For all of it.”
Lila hugs me and kisses my cheek before smacking me on the ass. “Yeah, yeah. Now go get some sleep before I kick your ass with my washboard abs.” I grin and climb the stairs, falling into a thankfully dreamless sleep almost as soon as my head hits my pillow.
CHAPTER NINE
CHARLIE
My quick dash to Cedar Ridge to ready the house for Mark passes in two whirlwind days. Lila and I replenish my kitchen, buy clothes and toiletries for Mark, and install hooks and nightlights. I spackle the bullet holes in my walls and dab new paint on them after she leaves Friday night. Saturday morning she surprises me with an unexpected trip to the salon, where she treats me to a cut, highlights, facial, and mani-pedi.
“You’ve not had the time or energy to take care of yourself. I’m making the time for you,” she says firmly when she pulls into the salon’s parking lot.
I shake my head. “I have too much to do, Lila.”
“We both do. Now let’s go. The longer you argue, the longer this is going to take. Besides, I have an appointment too, so unless you want to sit in the car and pout, come on.”
“You know, some people might call this being pushy,” I comment as we cross the parking lot.
Lila grins. “I prefer to think of this as an assertive act of kindness.”
During my foot rub, I confirm with Monica that Mark is still slated for discharge tomorrow, then verify our flights. I jot final to-do lists while my toes are painted a metallic burgundy and run through mental checklists while getting my hair cut and highlighted. Once home, I hastily complete my remaining tasks, toss a handful of things into my suitcase, and race to the airport at midnight, chauffeured once again by Tucker and Lila.
