Page 23 of Crowbar

“Day off. Deb doesn’t schedule me on Saturdays yet. I’m still in the probationary period where she’s deciding whether I’m a liability or an asset.”

“Which are you?”

“Both.” I picked up a strawberry and bit into it. “Why did you ask?”

“Thought we’d spend the day in town. Get you out. Walk around. Nothing strenuous.” His eyes dropped to the sling. “Give that arm a rest from real life for a few hours.”

The offer was so simple it almost hurt. A day in town. Walking around. Like normal people who did normal things and didn’t have ex-boyfriends counting down restraining orders or arms held together by pain meds and stubbornness.

“With Noodles?” I asked.

“With Gunner.”

“Noodles.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m delightful.” I finished the last strawberry and looked down at the empty plate. He’d fed me. Cooked for me, carried a tray to the bed, and was making sure I ate. My throat went tight, making me wonder if all of this was really free.

“Hey.” Crowbar’s voice was low, pulling my attention back. “None of that.”

“None of what?”

“That look. The one where you’re trying to figure out what this costs.”

My breath caught. He’d read me like a book with large print and pictures.

“Everything costs something,” I said quietly. “That’s been my experience.”

“Then your experience has been shit.” He said it without heat. “Breakfast is breakfast. A day out is a day out. There’s no invoice.”

I blinked hard, twice, and picked up the mug. The coffee was strong and black, exactly the way I didn’t take it, but I drank it anyway because he’d made it for me.

“I need to brush my teeth,” I said.

“Bathroom’s the door behind me. There’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet.” He stood, lifting Noodles off his chest without waking her and setting her gently on the bed. “Your clothes from last night are folded on the dresser. Washed them this morning.”

He’d washed my clothes. My khakis and my polo and probably my socks, which had a hole in the left toe that I’d been pretending didn’t exist.

“You washed my clothes,” I repeated.

“They smelled like barbecue smoke.”

“You washed my clothes at…” I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was nine-fifteen. “What time did you get up?”

“Six.”

“You got up at six on a Saturday to wash my clothes and make me breakfast.”

“Drift made the eggs.”

“Stop deflecting with Drift.” I set the mug down and crooked my finger. Crowbar leaned in. I kissed him on the cheek. Not where I wanted to kiss him. “Last night, I started to tell you something.”

Crowbar’s breathing was slightly ragged. “My eyes.”

“I was going to say they’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Sober verdict. For the record.”

“Appreciate it,” he said, his voice rough. “Get dressed.”