“Don’t expect anyone for a while,” he finally warns, an attempt to tell me that I might be here for a while, but still vague enough to not reveal anything about him.

That’s fine. Because I’ll be staying in a cottage with my teenage fantasy. Only he’s not a fantasy anymore. And he’s not a teenager. He’s living, breathing, and sexy as hell.

And until he tells me that there’s a girlfriend, I’m going to operate as if there isn’t one.

For the next few weeks, Brand Killien is all mine.

That’s plenty of time to figure all of his secrets out.

Chapter Four

Brand

From the armchair by the windows, I watch Nora unload her Jaguar. First she brings in a pair of crutches and leans them against my chair. Next she hauls in an overnight bag, then bag after bag of groceries before finally closing her trunk.

I hate sitting here like a helpless idiot while a woman carries in heavy groceries.

Jesus.

I fiddle with the crutches, adjusting them to the right height, before leaning them back against the chair.

Nora comes in and glances at me. “Okay. I didn’t know what you liked, so I just got a variety of stuff. I also got you soda and beer. I took a guess on what kindsd you like.”

I nod. “Anything will be fine. I’m not picky.”

She stares at me sternly. “But you can’t have the beer until you aren’t taking the painkillers anymore.”

I cock an eyebrow at her bossiness. “Yes, m’am.”

Her face is flushed from the heat outside, her red hair coming loose from her chignon. I stare at all the groceries she’d just unpacked, then look back to her.

“Okay, a couple of questions. One, did you leave anything in the store?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Yes.”

“And two, do you know how to cook?”

She rolls her eyes again.

“No. Not really. But how hard can it be?”

I snort. “Well, I can make eggs and frozen pizza. Did you get any pizzas?”

She shakes her head and now she’s looking hesitant. “No. I didn’t think of that.”

The look on her face makes me smile. She’s not used to not knowing how to do something, I can tell. And apparently, she’s not used to taking care of herself.

“So, you can’t cook, and I can’t cook. And I can’t walk,” I make these observations with a smile.

She sniffs, turning up her nose before she walks away. “I also bought a cookbook.”

She hears me laughing because her spine turns ramrod straight as she disappears into the kitchen. I’m still chuckling as I study my leg in the sun.

My knee hurts like a bitch. Obviously. Apparently, it turned backward and practically inside out.

My ankle throbs like a motherfucker too. It’s swollen to the size of a football.

My pain medicine is in the kitchen, where Nora is putting away all of those groceries alone, and right now, it looks like a hundred miles from here to there.

Suck it up, Buttercup.

With a groan, I grab the crutches next to me, and heft myself up, managing to not put weight on my leg.

Fucking-A.

It takes me five full minutes to make the trip. When I round the corner, Nora is stretching up on her toes to put food in the cabinets. Her shirt has pulled up, showing her flat stomach.

“Hey,” she looks up, yanking her shirt down. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“I’ve got an injured leg. I’m not an invalid,” I tell her grumpily, because invalid or not, my leg is throbbing like hell. I eye my pain pills, which are mocking me from above the sink, twenty painful steps away. I start my slow hobble toward them.

“Did you need something? I could’ve gotten it for you,” she tells me quickly, setting down a jar of spaghetti sauce, and heading for me.

I’m already shaking my head.

“You’re not my servant,” I tell her. “I’m not sure why you wanted to be here so bad, but you’re not going to wait on me hand and foot.” My words are sharper than I meant for them to be, but shit. My fucking leg hurts.

Nora’s mouth snaps closed and she looks like I slapped her. I feel guilty, because I know she only wants to help, but I don’t say anything. I’m tired, I’m in pain, I’m pissed at the world. It’s probably best that I just keep my mouth shut.

Without another word, I reach for the pills. Unfortunately, I’m not used to my crutches yet, and the left one rolls out from under me.

I lose my balance, and in my effort to not land on my leg, I slam into Nora, effectively pinning her to the counter.

She looks up at me, her eyes wide.

She’s so small compared to me, as I tower above her. Awkwardly, I shift my weight so I’m not smashing her, but I don’t move completely away.

Because my pelvis likes being pushed into her pelvis.

Her heat emanates into me, and she stares up into my eyes.

“You don’t want me here?” she asks breathily, her fingers curled around the counter edge. Her knuckles are white.

“I didn’t say that,” I answer quietly, still not moving. Because right now, with her soft curves pressed into me, I do want her here.

And unfortunately, my dick chooses this moment to agree with me.

It hardens against her and her eyes widen.

“I see,” she murmurs.

I rotate away, straightening up and leaning on my crutches once again.

“Sorry about that,” I tell her. “I hope I didn’t crush you.”

With my hard-on.

Her mouth twitches. “No worries. Let’s get you back out to your chair and I’ll bring you your pills.”

I don’t argue, I simply turn and begin the slow hobble to my chair.

Nora follows at my elbow, and as I’m twisting to drop into the chair, she gasps.

“Holy shit, Brand,” she breathes. “Your leg.”

I glance down and find a large spot of blood spreading on my inner thigh.

Fuck. I must’ve jostled the sutures in the kitchen.

Without another word, Nora bends over me, yanking the elastic band of my shorts down. I lift my hips to let the shorts slide down, and Nora’s cool fingertips find my inner thigh.

I grit my teeth.

Not because of pain, because there isn’t any. But because Nora’s fingers are literally a couple of inches away from my dick.

Cold fish. Cold fish. Cold fish.

Cold.

Fucking.

Fish.

“You broke open your wound,” she says needlessly, her voice panicked. She pulls at the blood-soaked bandage, examining the injury. She covers it with the gauze again, pressing her fingers firmly to it for a long moment before looking at it again.

“Okay. I think it’s fine. It was just a little tear, and it stopped bleeding.” She looks up at me, her face calmer now. “But you’ve got to be more careful, especially these first few days. If you need something, call me. Don’t try to get it yourself.”

I nod curtly, but I’d probably agree with anything right about now. Her fingers are pressed to my groin again and she’s kneeling in front of me. My thoughts aren’t on my fucking injury.

In fact, my thoughts are far from my fucking injury, but thankfully, I’m saved by someone clearing their throat in the doorway.

Nora and I both turn at the same time.

My mother stands there, her face disapproving, her shoulders stiff.

“Am I interrupting?” she asks icily.

I stare at her hard, because I haven’t seen her in nine years, because no one invited her here, and because she didn’t even bother to knock.

Bethany Killien is smaller, frailer and grayer than she was nine years ago.

Her thin arms stay at her sides. She doesn’t approach me, she doesn’t reach for me, she simply stands there, limp and quiet. Her face is tired, her hair pulled into a bun at her neck. She looks like someone who has lived a thousand lives.

“No, you’re not interrupting,” I tell her coolly, while Nora scrambles to get up. I don’t acknowledge the fact that Nora was on her knees in front of me, or that I’m in my underwear. I know what it might look like.