DEVON WINCED AS he stretched. Playing in the NHL, he’d had his fair share of broken bones, stitches, and bruises. This was right up there with the worst of his injuries.
Midday sun streamed through the windows, blinding him, forcing his mind awake even when his body wanted to hunker down into the mattress and not come out for days.
He sat up with a curse. An almost one. A broken-off one.
Then he blinked and stared at his nightstand. A sticky note, bright yellow as Becca seemed to favor, was propped up against his lamp. A little paper cup sat next to a glass of water.
Antibiotics, it read, and he looked into the container to see two huge yellow and red pills. His eyes trailed down, took in the rest of the note. Take them with the crackers. Not good on an empty stomach.
Devon stared at the script-like swirls of Becca’s handwriting. It had always amused him how gracefully she’d been able to give him written orders.
Today’s Post-it note was no exception.
Flowery squiggles did not hide the outright command.
It also didn’t mean that Becca was wrong. After swallowing the pills, he choked down a couple of crackers and drank the glass of water.
Using the facilities, brushing his teeth, and painfully changing his clothes went a long way toward making him feel human again.
He opened the door to his bedroom and was immediately assaulted with scents. Cinnamon, chocolate, something savory. They danced around the hall and collided with his senses.
Shaking his head, he walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.
He’d left Becca in a spare room the night before, after they’d waited for Pascal.
After his five phone calls and texts had gone unanswered.
Devon didn’t know whether to thank or strangle his assistant.
“I take it that Pascal is still MIA?” he asked.
Becca jumped. “Don’t do that!” she said, hand over her heart. “I was just—”
His mouth dropped open as he glanced past her and caught sight of the destruction she’d made of the kitchen. Every square inch of countertop was covered with pots or cookie sheets or ingredients. He flicked his gaze back to hers, watched her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink.
Devon found he liked the mix of scents, the sight of the cheerfully messy disorder. His chef, on the other hand, was going to lose her shi— stuff.
He raised a brow. “Just what?”
“I — uh — thought that you might need some food while you’re recovering and…”
He remained quiet as she trailed off, having learned long ago that sometimes silence was the best weapon to gain the truth.
Becca was no exception. She sighed, and her shoulders slumped slightly. “I stress-cook.”
“You’re stressed?”
It was her turn to raise her brows. “Um, yes. That tends to happen when a girl’s ex tries to kill her boss.”
She had tried to keep her tone light, but he’d seen it in her expression before she turned away. Guilt. The way her blue eyes had glittered with tears.
“It’s not your fault.”
A shrug of her shoulders. “Of course not.” But she didn’t look at him, and her tone wasn’t right.
Devon didn’t spend time second-guessing his actions. Not after last night, not after realizing how easily he could have lost her. He might have only known Becca for six months, but he’d never felt so connected to a woman.
When he was with her, the world shined a little brighter. When he kissed her, nothing else mattered.
Which, he thought ruefully, was probably why he was sporting more stitches than Frankenstein.
But Devon didn’t care. About any of it. He’d find a way to make it work at the office, make sure her psycho-ex was locked up permanently.
Because he’d realized that this was his chance.
His opportunity for something permanent. And he wanted Becca in his life.
So while she was trying to slyly wipe her tears away, Devon snagged a brownie and crossed to her.
“I hear chocolate makes everything better,” he said, carefully leaning over her shoulder and offering her the treat.
It wasn’t the smoothest line he’d ever made, but it did make her smile. And really, if all she gave him for the rest of his life was that smile, then his heart would be full.
“I baked those for you,” she said softly.
He started to shrug, forced back a grimace, and touched her cheek instead. “I can share.”
She gave him a crooked grin. “Good,” she said and stuffed the square in her mouth.
Her moan of pleasure hit him hard in the gut. And elsewhere. It shouldn’t be like this. She shouldn’t affect him so strongly. But he was realizing that Becca made all the shouldn’ts and can’ts become possible.
“Hey,” he said after she’d swallowed. The skin on her neck was delicate, pale honey, and his mouth watered with the urge to trail his lips there.
Not yet. She was primed to bolt, and Devon knew he would need patience if he wanted to catch her.
Resisting the urge to kiss her was tough, but he understood how to play the long game. So instead, he laced his hand with hers, got close enough to feel the heat of her body, to smell the aroma that was wholly Becca — floral with a touch of spice.
“It’s not your fault.”
She stiffened, tried to pull free.
Devon held on and continued, “You don’t believe that right now. I get it. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop telling you.” He bent and put his face right in front of hers. “I’ll keep telling you that until you realize it’s true. I’ll keep telling you because it is true. This guilt will eat you up inside.”
Becca was silent for a long time. “It was my fault—”
“I told—”
She closed the inch between their bodies and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Not that. My mom’s accident.”
“You said she was in a car wreck. That kind of thing just happens sometimes.” He stroked a hand through her hair, feeling the strands slide like silk through his fingers.
“Not this one.” She leaned back, misery in her eyes evident. “We were talking on the phone. No—” a bitter laugh “—arguing is more like it. My mom wanted to talk later, said traffic was bad, but I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t hang up, a-and she got into an accident.”
“Shit.”
He didn’t even bother to stifle the curse. Because, well, shit.
Becca didn’t seem to hear him, or maybe the adjective didn’t bother her because she was so distraught.
That’s why she was working so hard, why she was so intent on paying her mother’s rehab bills. That was why she thought last night—
“I’m sure your mom doesn’t blame you.”
And that was precisely the wrong thing to say.
“She should,” Becca said fiercely and pulled back.
Devon let her go, not able to find the right words.
Then — screw that — he closed the distance between them and gathered Becca in his arms. “It’s not your fault.”
A snort. But she didn’t fight his hold.
“Not your fault,” he murmured into her ear.
Her breath caught, but she shook her head.
“Not.” A kiss behind her ear. “Your.” To her jaw. “Fault.” The corner of her mouth.
“Dev—”
He pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle and sweet, penance and persuasion wrapped in one. And yet the underlying heat threatened to singe his very soul.
Becca just meant so much more than he could have ever expected.
He pulled back way sooner than he wanted to, resting his forehead against hers, breaths coming fast, heart pounding.
“It’s not your fault.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she gave a small nod.
“More chocolate?”
She smiled. “God yes.”