Page 103

I’ve never been one for bars, but this one is beautiful.

A door swings open, and Maverick steps out.

Speaking of beautiful. The sight of him catches me off guard. His light brown hair is longer on top, so it falls slightly to the side in a single soft wave. He has a trim beard on the lower part of his face. Wearing a black t-shirt stretched over his torso and a pair of grey joggers, he looks completely comfortable in his space—and absolutely gorgeous.

“Hey,” I say, forcing my gaze away. “I’m sorry that I am still in your clothes. Mine are wet.”

I have absolutely no business finding this man attractive. Or any man, for that matter. Not when I will never let a man put his hands on me again. Just the thought of it makes my stomach churn.

“Coffee?” he asks, holding up a mug in his hand.

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Find somewhere to sit.” He sets the mug that was in his hand on the bar top, then heads back through the door.

Unsure where I should sit, I set my backpack down by the bar and slide onto one of the stools. The movement makes my side ache, and I close my eyes for a moment to breathe through the pain.

As soon as it subsides, I open my eyes. Maverick is standing directly across from me, his intense gaze studying me like he’s searching for the answer to a riddle.

“Here.” He sets the coffee down, then offers me a bowl of little creamers.

“Thanks.” The coffee smells amazing, and if I weren’t worried I’d scare him off, I might cry out of absolute delight. When was the last time I had coffee? Truthfully, I lost count of the days.

“Yeah.” He heads back into the back of the bar as I add three creams to my coffee, then stir with the spoon he set on top of the creamer bowl.

I hold it up to my nose and breathe deeply for a moment, savoring what might be my last cup for a long, long time. Every morning after my run, I’d come home and indulge in a homemade espresso. It was always one of the best parts of my day.

“Hope you like pancakes.”

His voice jolts me, and I lower my mug quickly, cheeks heating as Maverick sets a plate in front of me. Oh boy. My stomach growls.

Three perfectly shaped pancakes sit on top of the plate, right beside a heaping pile of eggs and some roasted potatoes. I set the coffee aside and stare at the food. It looks absolutely delicious.

Like the kind of breakfast my mom would have made me once upon a time.

Maverick carries his own plate over and sits around the corner of the bar, three chairs between us. Just that simple movement is so unbelievably kind. He’s giving me space so I feel safe.

But why?

“Why are you doing this?” I look over at him.

“Do I need a reason?” he asks as he lifts a fork and starts cutting a corner from his pancake.

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t,” he agrees, then takes a bite of his pancake.

“Yet you brought me in from the alley last night and fed me like I’m a stray animal.”

He looks up at me, that sharp gaze holding a bite I hadn’t expected. “You’re hardly a stray animal. Though I do think medical attention might be helpful. Your bruising looks pretty nasty.”

“I don’t need a doctor.” Years of therapy, probably. And somehow, I wonder if even that will help.

“Then eat.” He turns his attention to his plate and begins eating, so I look down at mine and close my eyes.

Lord, I don’t know why he is doing this, but thank You for bringing me to this bar. Thank You for this food I am about to eat. Please let it nourish my body for however long it needs to, until I can eat again. In Jesus’ name, I pray. Amen.

I lift my fork and take a bite of the eggs. They’re fluffy, with just a hint of cheese and the perfect amount of salt.