The book and unfolded glasses on the nightstand.
A dent in the thick duvet, where I imagined Elliot might have sat to put on his socks.
A barely there hint of citrus, a note of Elliot’s cologne.
A gorgeous chrome wall piece over the bed I wished I could have explored closer, but that would have meant climbing onto the mattress, and well…no.
Elliot noticed me looking at his art. “Do you like it?”
I nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
“Luca made it. He calls his art a hobby.” From the subtle shake of his head, he disagreed.
“Wow. I only studied art history for a semester, but to my completely untrained eye, Luca has a lot of talent.”
“He does, but his family obligations mean his focus is running Rossi Motors.”
“Family is always a double-edged sword like that.”
Elliot hummed once, then fell silent and held his arm out, directing me into the bathroom. This room was nearly identical to mine, with sleek black cabinets and gleaming white tiles. The tub stood apart from the wall, and above it hung a metal and glass mobile.
I pointed to it. “One of Luca’s too?”
“It is.” He patted the counter. “Can you hop up here? It’ll be easier for me to check you out.”
I started to hobble to the counter, but my pride insisted I throw out another protest. “I could do this myself, you know.”
“I’m aware you’re able to, but I’d like to see for myself how serious it is.”
I pushed myself up, my butt landing on the marble between twin sinks. I still only had one sock on, the tissue, and the tiny bandage. Elliot wasn’t going to be impressed with my first aid skills.
He stacked supplies on the counter beside me, then dragged over a teak bench and sat down in front of me. “I’m going to take off your sock now.”
I nodded my consent, and he wrapped his long fingers around my ankle, lifting my foot onto his knee. He carefully peeled my sock off, and with it came the majority of the bloody tissue.
He grunted, shoulder bobbing up and down. His disapproving thoughts were broadcast so loudly I could almost hear them.
“You have to take better care of yourself, Catherine,” he admonished softly, ripping the Band-Aid off in one swift motion.
“I know.” I rubbed my palm along my thigh. “It’s been rough lately.”
“It doesn’t have to be anymore.” With a warm washcloth, he swiped the sole of my foot, a frown pinching his brows. “You really jabbed yourself, but it appears it’s stopped bleeding.”
His hands were smooth and sure, wiping my sole until it was clean. As the water cooled on my skin, I felt his breath heating it again. His concentration was focused completely on his task, allowing me to watch him uninterrupted.
“Your foot is so small,” he remarked as he dried me off.
“I’m short. They match the rest of me.” Not that I was small. My ass and thighs, and now my rounded stomach and swollen breasts, prevented that from ever being so.
He lifted my foot, turning it right and left to examine it. “Do you want to talk about it, Catherine?”
I rolled my lips over my teeth and shook my head. “Not really, if that’s okay.”
“It is. But I would like you to tell me when you’re ready.” He opened a bandage and tossed the wrapper aside. I flinched when it landed on the ground. I’d never seen Elliot so careless, but he was focused on his task.
“I’m really embarrassed,” I whispered.
His eyes darted up to meet mine, and I knew I was flaming red from the heat suffusing my cheeks. There were a lot of ways he could have interpreted what I meant since so much had gone wrong lately.
The state of my house.
Broke as a joke.
Abandoned by Liam.
Being wholly alone.
Injuring myself on my own shitty floors.
Letting Elliot tend to me.
“Don’t be.” His thumbs pressed into the arch of my foot, behind my injury, and something unfurled in my belly. “I know you well. You wouldn’t be in this situation if it could have been helped.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” He held my foot tenderly, stroking the sides and along the top, all the way to the elastic band around the ankle. It was such a sweet and unexpected gesture I didn’t have a chance to decide how I felt about it before he changed the topic. “These sweats are way too big for you. I’m concerned you’ll trip and knock yourself out.”
“No, I love them. You’ll have to pry these sweats out of my cold, dead hands.”