Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(12)
I startle, losing my balance as I turn, the sun blinding as I look toward the man standing behind me. He grasps my arm to keep me from falling. “I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice instantly familiar. He drops his hold on me just as quickly as it was given and moves back a step. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“McSpicy …?” I squint at him, my gaze darting toward the classic Ford F-250 parked nearby, my motorcycle strapped upright in the bed. “What are you doing here?”
“Scaring the shit out of you, by the looks of things. I’m sorry about that.” He glances toward the open door and the narrow stairs that lead into my home and frowns. When he turns his attention back to me, the intensity of his narrowed eyes burrows beneath my skin to heat it. “I heard you were released this morning instead of the afternoon, so I thought I’d bring your bike back and check on you. How are you doing?”
I could lie, if I just had a bit more in me to do it. But something about this man makes me want to tell him more than I should. Maybe it’s the way he watches me, his eyes fixed to mine, the door held open for me, his other hand lifted just a little as though he’s ready to catch me if I stumble.
“It’s been a shitty few days,” I say, my voice thinner than I hoped it would be.
Dr. Kane’s expression softens. His hold on the door relaxes a little and it creaks on its hinges. “Yeah. I can imagine.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Really? Because you sound like you have many doubts.”
He looks toward the motor home and shrugs. “I have doubts about the stairs.” When his attention returns to me, a smile tugs at one corner of his lips, his eyes a lighter shade of blue in the bright sun. “I don’t have any about you. I mean—your ability to look after yourself, of course.”
I bite down on a weary grin, though he doesn’t see it, not with the way his eyes dart to the shadowed interior of my motor home, then the gravel beneath us, then back to his vehicle as though he can’t wait to get into it and drive away.
“You should probably have some doubts about me, Doc,” I say, catching his gaze when it flicks back to me. “But I’ll still manage. Thanks for bringing my bike back. I’m afraid I can’t help you unload it, though.”
“I can do that,” he says, and I nod my thanks, gripping onto my crutch handles as I refocus on the entrance of my motor home. It’s going to be even hotter in there than it is out here. Dorothy’s been baking in the sun, but I’m desperate to peel off my leather jacket and strip down to my underwear and sleep until tomorrow. When I get to the step, I set my crutches against the side of the vehicle and grip the interior handle of the stairs. With the doc holding the door open, I hoist myself inside but hiss a curse when I bump my splint against the ledge on my way up.
“I’m good,” I grit out. Dr. Kane scrutinizes me as I pivot on my good foot to face him, his forehead crinkling at my forced smile. I reach back out the door for my crutches, but instead of grabbing them, I knock them over like dominoes.
“Well,” I say as we both stare down at them where they mock me from the ground, both mostly hidden beneath the motor home. “That … wasn’t great.”
“Not a strong start, no.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I can tell.”
“You’re not really helping.”
My deadpan joke seems to slap Dr. Kane out of his own thoughts and into action. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. He lets the door close gently, resting it against my elbow before he bends to collect my crutches. His faded gray T-shirt pulls tight across his back as he leans forward to pull them from beneath the motor home. Hard planes of muscle bracket his spine, his shoulders broad and defined beneath the thin cotton.
I swallow when he straightens to his full height and stands before me. I’m a hint taller than him where I stand on my little landing inside the motor home, but he still seems to take up all the space in my field of vision.
“Thank you,” I say, a little breathless. I wrap a hand around one of the crutches and try to pull it toward me, but he doesn’t relinquish it. “I’ll manage.”
“Yeah, I heard that. But you’d manage better at my house,” he blurts out. His eyes widen as though the words have escaped his control.
“Um … what …?”
“I mean … you should come to my house. This setup,” he says, waving his free hand toward my home, “it’s not ideal. You can barely get into it.”
“I just need some practice.”
“You don’t have air-conditioning.”
“I do …” Sort of. When Dorothy is moving and the windows are open. Also, when she feels like it. Which is basically never.
The doc gives me a suspicious frown. For a moment, I’m not sure if I said my thoughts out loud. “What about a shower?”
“I’m sure they filled my water tank before they left,” I say, scanning the grounds beyond his shoulder. “And when it runs out, there’s a communal shower over there.”
Dr. Kane turns to follow my gaze to a small wooden cottage with a SHOWER sign painted on the side, the building’s green paint as faded as the unmowed prairie grass surrounding it.