Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(10)

She nods, smiling. “Omelets sound great.”

While I whip up the ingredients and pour the mixture into a hot skillet, Ana sits on a stool at my kitchen counter and watches me.

We eat, making small talk. It’s not a skill I usually possess, but I make do, asking about where she’s from—Las Vegas—and how long she’s lived here—one year.

During dinner, her phone rings several times, but I assume it’s not her friend, because she huffs out a sigh and eventually places the thing on silent. Fucking Kress.

After we eat, I make her sit on the couch while I load the dishwasher, and she does, right after pouring some dog food into a cereal bowl that she places on the floor for Hobbes. It doesn’t smell very appetizing to me, but he inhales it in about twenty seconds flat.

“How’s your foot?” I ask, joining her in the living room.

She slips off her sock, shrugging. “It feels all right at the moment.”

“Let me see it again. If it needs it, I’ll change the dressing.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding.

I head to the bathroom to wash my hands and gather up more gauze and tape. When I return, Ana is waiting for me with Hobbes asleep in her lap. I remove her sock, relieved to see the cut doesn’t look too bad.

“How’d you get so good at this?” she asks, watching me work quickly and efficiently.

I shrug. “Hockey’s a rough sport. You learn how to fix up injuries pretty quickly.” I recall one of my coaches teaching me how to wrap a sprained wrist, and another showing me how to stop a nosebleed—with a tampon, of all things. I’ve picked up all kinds of things over the years.

Ana pushes her hair over her shoulder, and I notice a purple bruise on her wrist. I touch her forearm and gently wrap my fingers around her wrist, holding it up.

“He do this to you as well?”

She pulls it away and drops her gaze to the space between her feet.

My voice drops. “Ana?”

“He doesn’t mean to, and he’s never normally this rough. Things just got really heated.”

My protective instincts kick into overdrive, and I feel like breaking something. Rising to my feet without a word, I storm away, needing to cool down. Inside my bathroom, I toss the roll of athletic tape and gauze inside a drawer, barely resisting the urge to slam it shut.

I take a couple of deep breaths to get myself under control, and when I’m calmer, I march back into the living room where Ana is still waiting. She looks up at me with a mix of worry and confusion.

Adrenaline at having discovered those bruises is still coursing hotly through me, and my posture is stiff. Hearing that this isn’t a first-time thing pisses me off, and it’s then that I make a decision that I hope she agrees with.

“You’re not going back there. Not ever.”

“I know,” she says quietly. Almost like she needs to do something with her hands, she dials her friend again. There’s still no answer.

“You’ll stay the night here,” I say. “I’ve got a guest room, and it’s yours. It’s either that, or you and I are calling every goddamn hotel in Seattle to find one for you and your dog. It’s your choice, though, Ana. Are you two staying here, or are we getting on our phones and calling hotels?”

She nods, and I barely hear her when she speaks. “I’d like to stay here for the night.”

I stand from the couch with a nod. “Okay, let’s get your room set up.”

I grab a set of sheets and a couple of pillows from the hall closet, and Ana follows me to the guest room, which is just down the hall from my bedroom. After shaking out the sheet, I’m fitting it over the mattress when Ana touches my arm.

“I can handle it. You’ve done enough. Picking me up, making dinner, letting me stay here . . .”

I shake my head. “I’ve got it.”

“Then I’ll just take Hobbes out. He needs to go outside before we go to bed.”

Abandoning the bed, I turn to her. “I’ll take him out. You should stay off that foot.”

She lifts one eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. And I’ll finish setting up the bed when I get back, so don’t get any ideas while I’m gone.”

“Okay, I’ll leave the bed making to you, but you’ll need this for when you take Hobbes outside.” She hands me a tiny black plastic bag from inside her purse.

“What’s this?” I ask, looking down at it.

“For his business.”

Oh. Right. My eyebrows dart up. I’m going to have to pick up her dog’s shit in this bag.

“Never mind, Grant. I’ll take him.” Ana looks almost amused by my reaction.

“I can handle it,” I say gruffly.

It turns out it’s not as bad of a job as I imagined since his shit is the size of a Tootsie roll.

When I get back with Hobbes, Ana has finished making up the bed, and is pulling some clothing out of her duffel bag to set on top of the dresser.

“Thought I was going to make the bed?” I ask, slightly amused.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I just wanted to help. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.” She drops her attention to the floor as her shoulders droop.

Fuck, what did Kress do to her?

“Hey, Ana, it’s okay. Honestly, it’s totally fine. You never have to say you’re sorry to me, okay? And please never feel like you have to look down around me. You wanna make the bed, make it. You wanna cook, cook. You wanna watch a chick flick, watch one.”