Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(7)

“Manache.”

A string of further Italian curses—courtesy of her parents’ insistence on a decade of lessons—were dying to burst free of her mouth. It always made her feel better, without the negative side effect of offending anyone who didn’t speak the language. Outbursts had never been tolerated in their household. When Abby gave in and allowed her temper to show, her parents’ displeasure usually resulted in their absence. Absences that could stretch for weeks, giving time for her defiance to fade and regret to appear. Even referring to her father’s new wife as stepmother hadn’t been allowed. She’d been required to accept her stepmother’s new status as mother with no questions asked, disapproval being heaped on her when she failed to address her correctly.

Abby’s litany of Italian curses was stayed when a commotion to her left captured her attention. Warmth flickered and glowed in her chest when she saw Russell arguing with a police officer, trying to get through the makeshift barrier. Oddly, a part of her had been expecting him even if she hadn’t consciously acknowledged it. The officer seemed adamant about keeping him out, but Abby pressed her hands to her heart and gave the man a pleading look, finally succeeding in making him relent.

Russell was by her side a split second later, kneeling on the concrete and running his eyes over every inch of her. He was filthy, sweating, and breathing heavy. One of the most welcome sights she’d ever encountered in her twenty-four years. “Ankle?” he barked over the sound of shouting and sirens.

She nodded.

“How?”

Abby was so busy marveling over how good it felt to have someone there—just for her—that she forgot the question. “What?”

He appeared to implore the sky for patience. “How’d you hurt your ankle? Were you . . . were you close to the blast? Has a paramedic looked at it yet?”

“No to both questions. And I don’t need a paramedic.” She clapped a hand over his mouth when he started to argue. “It’s really stupid. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“No, but tell me anyway.” His voice was muffled against her hand. “I need a moment.”

She wanted to question him about that statement, but his deepening frown told her it wasn’t a good time. “The blast happened across the street while I was going down the emergency stairwell. That’s where I was when you called. I dropped my phone.” It occurred to her then that Honey and Roxy were probably worried. “Can you—”

“We’ll call them in a minute. Finish the story.”

His irritable tone made her grin. Who needed continual approval? Not her. That she could continually piss off Russell and yet he kept showing up? Never staying away for long periods of time no matter what happened? It made her feel as though she was more than just a sum of her accomplishments. “When I bent down to pick up my phone—because I could hear you yelling at me—my high heel slid back and got caught in the gap between stairs. I fell forward, and my ankle stayed where it was.”

Russell seemed to be counting to ten as his eyes closed.

“Are you going to do that thing where you pinch the bridge of your nose at me?” She tilted her head, studying his expression. “It seems like a good time for that one.”

Instead of answering, his hands shot out and retrieved the high heels from her feet, taking special care not to jostle her hurt ankle. Then he snapped the heel off of each shoe, in turn, and threw them into the nearest sewer grate.

Abby’s jaw dropped on a gasp and stayed that way as Russell scooped her up off the sidewalk. “You are unbelievable, Abby,” he growled. “A gas leak leads to an explosion. The entire city block is being evacuated, and you think it’s a good time to fall down some goddamn stairs. You could have broken your neck.”

“Russell, those were Roxy’s shoes.”

“Fine by me.” He turned them sideways, squeezing past the barricade. “So long as you can’t borrow them anymore.”

“She’ll never let me borrow anything now.”

“You see this?” His voice boomed down at her, but against the backdrop of police radios and emergency vehicles, it was a comfort. “Those shoes could have cost you your life, and yet you defend them. New theory. When it comes to shoes, women have Stockholm Syndrome.”

“You’re just trying to take my mind off being scared.”

She thought she heard him respond with I’m trying to take my mind off of it, but he was temporarily drowned out by sirens. When they crossed the street into slightly quieter surroundings, he glanced down at her, then away. “You were scared?”

“Terrified.” Abby forced herself to keep a straight face. “I forgot to back up my work on the computer. If the building had exploded, I would have lost a full day.” That earned her a glare. She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder just as they reached his truck, which he’d essentially abandoned in the middle of a side street. “That was good thinking, parking outside the blast zone.”

“Stop making jokes about it, Abby.” He lifted her higher against his chest and opened the passenger-side door before setting her down easy on the ripped seat. The interior smelled like paint, sweat, and pine, such a pleasing combination that she took a deep inhale. She reached for the seat belt, but Russell beat her to the task, strapping the worn nylon across her body and securing it with a click. Without a job to occupy himself, he appeared at a loss for what to do with his hands, but eventually he crossed his arms high over his chest. Then he just looked at her. “I knew it as soon as I heard the sirens, Abby. Knew you’d somehow manage to be in the middle of all this. Do you know how I knew?”