Royal Hearts (Love At The Lake #2)

Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

CAT

T here’s nothing to do but follow him, is there?

“See ya, Lola,” I say over my shoulder, but she’s already snoring. “Where are we going?” I pant a little catching up to him using tiny hops to save my ankle. I’ve never done a stair master or a gym routine in my life, and this winding, dark staircase is giving me a run for my money.

“Up to my apartment to get us dry clothes. You should wait downstairs for me.” Even in the dark, I can make out his grimace when he turns to see me struggling up the stairs. “Cat, you stubborn woman, wait?—”

Sure enough, I miss one and bang my shin, catching my toe just shy of clearing the tread, and crash to my hands with an unceremonious shriek.

I hear him rush toward me and drop to his knees. “Shit, are you okay?” He gropes for me in the dark. “From now on, I don’t care if you don’t like being taken care of. I knew you were going to hurt yourself. Now I’m calling the shots.” He stands, taking me with him by the waist with one arm, and continues up the stairs.

“You don’t have to carry me, again,” I grumble, but my legs wrap around him and I hang on.

“Trust me, Bloom, I know this house like the back of my arm. Relax?—”

“It’s back of your hand, and . . . I don’t even have it in me to fight you. Fine ,” I groan, “carry on.”

I motion forward, waving my hand in the dark, then wincing as my elbow bends and burns.

“Where are you hurt?” he asks again, moving down the hall, his strong arms carrying me like I’m nothing.

“Both my elbows,” I seethe. I’m not sure if I’m angry at him or at myself. This is not something I do: let myself get hurt, put myself in the position of being helpless. I’ve done it twice now in as many hours.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, absentmindedly dropping a kiss at my elbow and wrapping my hand back around his neck.

As much as I hate the feeling of being helpless, I can’t fault him for being so sweet with me. “I’m fine.”

He moves into a room that smells like cloves and incense and sits me in a fluffy chair next to a table nestled like a bird’s nest in a bay window. “Wait here.”

I do, using the light from the window to survey my surroundings as best I can. Club chairs are situated around a small table littered with a few books, a pair of reading glasses, and a stack of mail. Outside, the moon is high now, cut in a sliver while stars pop around it, snow cascading from the sky in lumpy puffs of white. There’s more cream stationary stacked neatly and to the side, clumps of balled-up sheets under the table, too.

He walks back in the room holding two candles, and a box under one arm. The light jumps and cuts across his face. Strong cheekbones, proud nose, sultry smile.

He’s laughing at me .

“What?” I demand.

“Easy. I’m taking in the view.”

I look around. “Of what?”

“You,” he kneels next to me, setting both candles on the table, the box in my lap. “In the moonlight, you look almost sweet, Bloom.”

If I were my sister or Willow, I’d swoon right now. He’s on his knees for me . But I’m not, and I’m not about to forget Winter Larsen is off limits, despite the way my body reacts to him, or how far we’ve come since this new mutual burying of the hatchet.

“I’m not sweet, and I’m fine. I don’t need any of this.”

Matches lay on the table, so I make use of them and light a cedar-scented candle. I wish I still hated him. I didn’t know it then, but this was all a lot easier before we became friends. If that’s what we are now…

I hold my features still and firm and look away.

“Fair enough,” he murmurs. “I realize this is hard for you. Roll up your sleeves, let me see.”

I do as I’m told and he sucks in a breath. “Cat.” The way he says my name is full of worry. “You might need stitches. You’ve got gashes in both your elbows. This flimsy sweater didn’t help.”

“It’s cashmere,” I mumble, watching the snow out the window, willing myself not to get used to someone taking care of me.

Willing myself not to feel his touch as if it’s fire.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, but I’m afraid it’s toast. Soaked with blood. Do you want to try and get to a doctor? We can take Daylight, she can make it into town?—”

“It’s not that bad. They’re only elbows.” I glance down and while there’s a lot of blood, it seems to have stopped. “I don’t care about scars.”

He’s got both hands wrapped around my upper arms as if he thinks I’m going to slide right out of my chair. He squeezes twice. “It’s okay to be hurt—to need help. ”

“Don’t you have something in there that’ll do?” I nod to the kit, keeping the rest of my body still.

All I can think about are his big hands and strong fingers wrapped around my arms, keeping me in place as if I’ll disappear at any moment. I hope he doesn’t notice how uncomfortable I am. I know he does.

“I’ve got a couple of butterfly bandages. But you will have scars if it’s not tended to properly.”

“I told you. I don’t care about that.”

“Funny, I would have pegged you differently.” He shakes his head.

I lift my chin.

“That wasn’t an insult, Bloom.” He applies a bandage to each arm gingerly, as if the last thing on earth he wants to do is hurt me. Even a little.

“It felt like one.” And maybe that’s on me. “What did you mean?”

“You know,” he looks closely at one arm and begins to clean the wound. “You’re so concerned with image.”

“Oh my God,” I burst, pulling his cheeks with my hands so we’re eye to eye. He freezes in my grasp and I think he’s holding his breath. “Can you let my social media history go? It’s my job, and not even close to my favorite part. I couldn’t care less about a few scars.”

His eyes heat, like he’s listening to my words as hard as he can. He’s hearing them as loudly as I need him to. “It’s a button for me, but I believe you. I shouldn’t have judged you so harshly when we met.”

“And I should say the same—you helped the Rushmores.” It’s easy to say, because I know it’s hard for him to hear—he likes to hide his good deeds. He’s not the only one who’s judged too harshly, and I still I don’t understand why he did it. “Why?”

The candle flickers as I wait for his answer.

“Because I knew you cared,” he whispers .

Both of our vulnerabilities fade into the dark room as he presses his cheek into my hand.

I let my fingers fall and clasp my hands in my lap before I do something silly. “Winter?”

He looks up. “Yes?”

“That was a good thing you did. I’ll forever be indebted to you. The Rushmores, Brand Hub, Liam.” It makes me feel uneasy, entrusting all that happiness to someone else.

“It was my pleasure.” He wants to say more, I see it in his eyes, but I’m afraid of what it will mean.

So I do what I do best, deflect and keep myself safe. “So, how are we going to fight Anker? How do we get rid of him? Because that guy has to go.”

“Okay, okay, Rocky,” he laughs, getting back to cleaning and bandaging the cuts on my arms.

“Rocky?” My smile cracks and I wonder if he can make it out in the dim light, still kneeling in front of me. “My dad used to watch those movies. Rocky the boxer, right? Workout montages, running upstairs and cheering. That Rocky?”

“Yeah.”

“God, I haven’t thought about them in forever. Mike Bloomfield lived on those in the old days. I think they inspired him and my mom when they were building their business, following their dreams.”

“The guys made sure I got a strong dose of American culture when I was kid. It involved Rocky, Lord of the Rings, Sesame Street , and Friends on repeat till I thought I’d pass out. I know I still get a lot of the sayings wrong.”

I bite my lip to stop from laughing. “It’s cute.”

“Cute?” He raises an eyebrow sky high, creating little crinkles in his brow that I’m tempted to count.

“Endearing,” I confirm.

He falls back on his heels clutching his chest. “Is that . . . Could that be another compliment? ”

It’s easy to laugh at him, but I don’t miss how he gulps down praise as if he’s been waiting for it his whole life. Maybe he has. “Don’t get too worked up.”

“I was keeping a mental tally but there’s too many to count, now. It’s official— you like me. ” It’s true. I know it, and now he knows it, too.

“No comment.”

He barks a laugh at that, clearly enjoying getting under my skin. My chest warms to know that I’m making him happy, especially after seeing him torn down by Anker. If that’s what he’s dealt with on the regular, I don’t blame him for escaping to the States.

“You need something to wear. You’re soaked, you’re bloody, and now you’re buttering me up so I’m not going to give you something horrible from my ancestor’s closets.”

“You’ve got that kind of stuff around here?”

“Oh yeah, Vikingstrong is chock-full of antiques. You should see the furs. PETA would have a fit, and frankly so would I, but they’re old and useful in the winter. I would never condone it now, but a hundred years ago, that was still a way of life in the mountains.”

He moves around the room, shucking his own sweater off, revealing a plain white t-shirt. He digs through a chest of drawers near his bed and then tosses a lump through the dark at me.

“Hey!” I barely manage to get my hands up to catch the soft material.

“It’s cashmere.” The joke floats in the dark, a lightness to his voice, playfulness in his tone.

“I’m not wearing your clothes.”

“Suit yourself. Naked is acceptable.”

“Winter!”

“I’ll use the bathroom down the hall. Can you see this doorway? Here.” A match strikes with a flare of fire. He sets a candle inside a bathroom, black and white tiles shimmer. “You can change in mine. Don’t go through my medicine cabinet.”

The room is glowing and I let my head tip back to rest on his soft leather chair. “Are we really snowed in?” We both hear it, the stress, the cares, and the worries rolling off me.

If we’re stuck, there’s no fighting it, right?

His clothes are soft in my hands, and he waits, watching me. When I say nothing else, no sarcasm or complaints, he says, “You’re welcome, Bloom.”