Page 104

Too hungry to wonder why this man is feeding me any longer, I devour my food and drink the coffee like it’s going out of style. More than once, I have to actively remind myself that I’m not an animal and I can take my time.

But it is so very good, and I am so very hungry.

Plate empty, I take the last drink of my coffee, then sit for a moment longer, basking in the fullness of my stomach. Because who knows how long it will be before I have this feeling again.

“There is a washer and dryer in my apartment. I can give you the key, and you can use it to clean your clothes if you’d like.”

“Uh, I don’t need to do that. I washed them in the sink. I think they’ll be dry soon, but I can always wear them wet so I can get out of your hair.”

“Out of my hair?”

“I’m taking up your space, and I need to get going anyway.” I move off the stool, and fresh pain shoots through my ribs. I hiss through clenched teeth and take just a moment to breathe through it.

When I’m done and I open my eyes again, Maverick is only a few feet away from me, brow furrowed as he studies me.

“No one is using that space, so you’re not taking up anything. And clearly, you’re healing from whatever it is you went through. You don’t need to leave.”

“You don’t understand.” Panic starts to thrum through my veins. “I can’t stay here. You have to let me go. Please let me go.” Tears burn in my eyes. Will he try to keep me here, too?

Maverick studies me a moment, then moves to the side. “I’m not keeping you here. You can leave if you want. I’m only letting you know that you don’t have to.” He takes his plate, pauses to grab mine, and heads back into the kitchen behind the bar.

I close my eyes, plant a hand on the bar, and breathe through the fear.

I am not a prisoner here.

He will let me leave.

He’s merely offering me a place to stay if I want.

But that same question runs through my mind…why?

MAVERICK

I’ve been known for a lot of things in my life.

My temper being the main one, despite Old Man Whitaker’s assumption last night.

I have also been told—many times—that I am a man of few words and many facial expressions. Mom used to tell me I had subtitles for everything going on in my head.

Never been known for generosity, though. Granted, I never found myself in a situation that warranted it.

Until now, it seems. Because the very idea of sending this woman out onto the street today feels impossible.

Doesn’t mean she should stay here, though.

She’s clearly in some kind of trouble and doesn’t want to alert the police.

Is she a drug runner? An addict?

It could be any of those things or more, yet I still can’t bring myself to shove her out the door. At least, not until she can slide on and off a barstool without hissing in pain.

Taking a pause for a moment between dishes, I close my eyes and recall the way her entire expression tightened up in pain just a few minutes ago. I’d jumped up to help her, of course, nearly reaching out to grip her arm just to steady her.

Then I remembered how quickly she shot away from my touch last night. The fear in her wide, gorgeous eyes as she regarded me like someone there to hurt her.

And with that, drug runner and addict seems pretty far-fetched.

Whatever happened to her was brutal. That much is plain now that I see the full extent of the bruising on her face. So I kept my distance, opting instead to linger just close enough to offer aid if need be.