Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(27)

“I’m gonna help you clean this up, okay? Are you hurt at all?”

“I-I don’t think so. Just . . . unnerved.”

She exhales a tremulous breath but doesn’t move as I right the garbage can and pick up the bag that fell out. Then I collect all the discarded papers and empty Quaker Oatmeal packets and put them back in the recycle bin.

She’s still missing her bunny slipper. So I grab that and kneel in front of her, tapping the top of her foot. “Just lift an inch, okay?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Her voice is soft and breathy.

When she lifts her foot, her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. The contact is jarring, sending a wave of goose bumps flashing over my skin.

She slides her bare foot into her bunny slipper, and as soon as it meets the ground, she removes her hand from my shoulder. I rise slowly, keeping my head down. “I’d like to walk you to your door and make sure you get inside safely. Is that okay, Professor?”

“Um . . . I think . . . I think that would be okay.”

It sounds more like a question than a statement without any certainty or ease behind it. “You’re safe with me. I promise. But if you would prefer I stay here, on the sidewalk, I can absolutely do that. I’m worried, though, because you’re shaking, and I feel like maybe you’re a little rattled and you need a minute to process.”

She looks down and lifts one of her hands, the tremor visible even in the inky darkness. She turns her hand faceup, and I get a load of her palm, which is missing a layer of skin at the fleshy part near her thumb. “I must have gone down harder than I realized,” she whispers.

“I think you did. Do you trust that you’re safe with me?” I ask again.

“Those men could have hurt you.”

“They could have, but it would have given you time to get inside. And I play hockey, remember? I’m used to taking a beating. You, not so much.” I give her a gentle smile. “Do you live on your own? Do you have a roommate? Or a boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?”

“Who lives with you? Is there someone else inside who will make sure you’re okay and taken care of?” When we hooked up back in August, she didn’t have a boyfriend. But that doesn’t mean things haven’t changed since.

“Oh. No. My best friend lives in the apartment above mine, though.”

“Okay. That’s good. Do you want to call her?”

“She sleeps with earplugs in. She only wakes up when her light alarm goes off.”

“Light alarm?”

“It simulates the sunrise.”

“Oh. Got it. I can help you with your hands and make sure you’re okay before I go, then?” I don’t want to leave her on her own, not when she’s still in shock.

She looks up at me, eyes searching my face in a way that makes me feel exposed, but I remain still, giving her the time she needs to make a decision about what she’s comfortable with.

“I trust that I’m safe with you,” she says softly.

I nod once and exhale the breath I seemed to be holding. I place a hand on the small of her back, then realize the contact might be too intimate and shift to her elbow so I can guide her along the walkway and up the front steps. Her slippers slap the concrete. I look away as she keys in the code to the front door and opens it.

I leave my shoes on the mat inside the door and follow her into the kitchen, waiting until there’s enough space before I skirt around her and pull out a chair. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I can have a look at those hands.”

“I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches,” she says, but she sinks into the chair. She’s wearing a pale green bathrobe. The bottom is dirty now, because the ground was damp, likely from the rain we got this afternoon, and there are dark reddish-brown spots on the lapels, where she was holding it together.

“I still wouldn’t mind taking a look, if that’s okay with you.” I crouch in front of her.

“It’s really not that ba—” She flips her hands over so they’re palm up, resting on her thighs. “Oh. I didn’t realize . . .”

In the kitchen light, the damage looks a lot worse than it did outside in the murky night. As I suspected, she’s skinned her palms pretty good—enough that it’s going to scab over and be uncomfortable for a few days. “Do you have a first aid kit anywhere?”

“In the bathroom. It’s down the hall.”

“Okay. Great. Do you have any juice in the fridge? A little sugar would probably help with the shakes and all the adrenaline.”

“I’m really okay.”

“It’s the fight-or-flight response, all those endorphins rushing through your body. It sends the body into survival mode.”

“Right. Yes. That makes sense.” Her tongue sweeps across her bottom lip. “There’s lemonade in the fridge, second shelf on the right.”

“And the glasses?”

“Cupboard to the left of the fridge.”

“Okay.” I push to a stand and wash my hands in the sink before I open the cupboard to reveal a mishmash of glasses with different cartoon characters on them, all of them faded with age. They’ve probably been around since long before Professor Sweet was born. I pick a mug that has a cute cartoon of a waffle on it. Then I read the cursive text underneath: Don’t be a twatwaffle. I grab the handle and move over to the fridge. I find the lemonade exactly where she said it would be, shake it up, and pour her a glass.