“Once I know you’ll be okay, I’ll leave you alone.”
And for both our sakes, I pray I can actually follow through on that promise.
After a beat, she steps aside and lets us in.
Her apartment is ten floors below mine, smaller, cozier—but still well-kept and inviting. The walls are painted a soft cream, with warm accents with throws, plants, framed prints. Nothing out of place.
It suits her.
I knew it would.
The low hum of the TV filters through the room—Scandal reruns—and I can’t help but smile, picturing her squealing at the screen every time Olivia and Fitz steal a moment.
I feel closer to her somehow, just standing in this space. Like I’ve been given a glimpse into a part of her world I’d never dared to imagine.
But who am I kidding? I’ve imagined all of this.
I toured the space before she moved in, before she added her touches—before her scent lingered in the air, before the soft throw blankets and stacks of books made it hers. I made sure everything was perfect.
Moving to a new city, alone, as a single woman was hard enough. I didn’t want her to worry about a damn thing when it came to finding a place to live or comfortable furniture. So I handled it. Quietly.
And for the two months she’s lived here, I’ve imagined her in every inch of this space.
I’ve pictured her dancing in this living room, nothing but skin and that smile. I’ve imagined her curled up on the balcony with a book on lazy Saturday mornings, her bohemian locs spilling over her shoulders.
And I’ve spent more minutes—hell,hours—than I care to admit in the shower, imagining what it would be like to have my way with her right here, bent over that dining table that seats eight. I’d feast on her like I was eating for twelve.
Pull it together, Mills.
You can’t afford to get hard while the pretty lady is being assessed for a head injury.
Dr. Shoup sets his bag down and walks her through the standard checks. Pupils. Eye movement. Balance. Reflexes. A few simple questions to test her memory and orientation.
Through it all, she sits up straight, answering calmly, even though I can see the weariness pulling at her.
Finally, he straightens, tucks his equipment away. “You’re fine. No signs of a concussion. Just stay rested. No screens for a bit. No strenuous activity. Listen to your body.”
She thanks him quietly.
I walk him to the door, shaking his hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“Anything for Coach Saunders,” he says, referring to the new miracle worker all the guys on the team have been bragging about. And I like that they call her that. Made her one of them.
Then, the doctor leaves.
When I turn back, Eslin is curled on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her.
Without thinking, I reach for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently lay it across her feet.
She watches me for a long beat, eyes soft but sharp. Then she says, “You’re terrified of losing the people you love, aren’t you?”
I love that she can do that. Hate that she can do that. See me so easily.
She seems to realize the weight of her words and quickly corrects, “I mean, not that you...love me or anything. I wasn’t saying that—”
I shake my head, a wry smile tugging at my mouth. “I know what you mean, Eslin. And yes, you’re correct. When Marlow was sixteen, she made me sign a contract that I wouldn’t make her leave the house in bubble wrap the way I always watched over her. I was…a little intense about her safety after her mother died.”
Her expression softens. “How did she pass? If you don’t mind me asking.”