Make Me Bad - R.S. Grey Page 0,46
all on his own. I think it was because he blamed himself for the frisbee hitting me in the first place, as if he should have been standing guard like a sentry or something.
“Do you want anything from downstairs?” he asked, moving to the door. “I’m going to get you some water.”
“You don’t have to tend to me. I’m fine, I swear.”
After ignoring me, he returned five minutes later with some water, a bottle of Advil, an apple, and a bag of pretzels. He must have raided my bathroom cabinet and the pantry.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, passing me a pill and the water.
I downed it and smiled, tugging the blankets to my chin. “Peachy. How do I look?”
I fluttered my lashes and he frowned. “You’ll heal up. Do you want me to stay? I could find a show or—” His gaze swept to the paperback on my nightstand. “Read to you.”
My hand reached out for his arm, gripping it so tightly I likely cut off circulation. He had to stop. Was he trying to send me to an early grave?
“I’m fine. I promise.”
He nodded and stood up. His hand got dragged through his hair for the hundredth time since the frisbee smacked into my skull. “Right. Well, I’m only a phone call away if you need something.”
“All right, when my glass of water gets low, I’ll give you a call,” I teased.
He finally cracked a hint of a smile and then bent down to gently brush the side of my forehead. “I’m sorry our picnic ended this way.”
Not sorrier than me.
Sunday, Ben texted me twice, once in the morning—just before my dad noticed my bump and I had to feed him a lie about how I’d tripped at the library—and once at night to check in on me and make sure I hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. He thought I was on my deathbed. From an errant frisbee. My life is just not that interesting, sorry dude.
Back in the library on Monday morning, Mrs. Allen says since I won’t let her call the police (she means an ambulance), she has a great olive oil I can rub on my head to help it heal quicker.
“Do you mean an essential oil?”
“They’re the same, I think. This one’s extra virgin.”
Oh good, extra virgin—just like me.
Then she leaves me alone at my desk with Katy. We just had a new shipment of board books arrive and we’re adding them to the library’s system. Obviously, by that, I mean I’m adding them and Katy is mostly scrolling through Instagram.
She cracks up at something, ignoring me when I ask her to hand me a book.
“Katy.”
Nothing.
I try again. “Katy.”
She groans like I’m a pain in her ass, and I recall the conversation I had with my boss earlier where I tried to insist Katy be fired or moved to a different department far, far away from me. “No can do,” was his response. Apparently, we get a small grant from the city for taking on interns like her and I’m the only dummy willing to put up with her.
She finally reaches for a book and holds it out to me without looking. It’s not even remotely within my reach. I have to stand up and bend over to grab it. When I do, I resist the urge to smack her with it just as her gaze lands on something other than her phone. It’s a first. There’s either a celebrity or a zombie in her line of sight, and I pray it’s the latter. At least then I’d be rid of her.
“Jeez. Who’s the hunk?”
I glance up to see Ben walking into the library. His presence is like a solid punch to the gut. Oof. His suit is black. Oof. His face is sharp and mean-looking and worthy of being carved into stone. Oof.
He spots me right away and his expression eases a bit until he notices the nice bruise on my forehead. His brows tug together again, and I blanch. I should have worn a hat. I tried on a dozen: fedora, beanie, scarf tied around my forehead. In the end, I settled on acceptance. This is me, world, bruise and all.
Katy jumps to her feet and pushes in front of me so she looks like the person on duty behind the desk. Her phone is forgotten on her chair. I’m shocked. I could have sworn it was surgically attached to her hand.
When he steps within earshot, she leans forward, exposing