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“Let me get the door for you.”
He holds open one of the glass doors to our apartment building. I nod my thanks as I maneuver inside. Accepting people’s offers for help during my first couple of months in Paris took some getting used to. My mother had maintained almost exclusive control over my wheelchair whenever we were outside the house, meaning I never had the chance to see those offers of support. I’d mostly used my crutches in the privacy of my own room, as my mother claimed it made her nervous I could fall again. Moving around the City of Lights on my own had been freeing but also challenging at times. The assistance given to me by random strangers helps me stay independent.
“Can I carry your bag for you?”
“No, thanks.” I smile at Thomas over my shoulder as I head toward the elevator. “It was a light shopping day. Thanks, though.”
“I don’t mind. Really.”
Sometimes, though, offers for help can be challenging. I appreciate when people see me struggling and step in to assist. But when someone is acting like Thomas, pushing even after I’ve clearly said no, it’s hard to be polite.
“I know, Thomas. But I’m fine. Really.”
I feel a tug on my shoulder. Irritation surges through me as I look back to see Thomas wrapping a hand around the strap of my bag.
“You look exhausted, Tessa. Just let me help.”
I start to swing around, but he pulls at the same time I turn. The movement throws me off balance and I stumble, one of my crutches sliding out from under me as my weight shifts to my left leg. I can’t stop my cry as a sharp pain shoots up my calf. I twist and manage to lean into my fall, sliding across the tile floor as the contents of my shopping bag fall out.
“Tessa!”
Thomas is at my side, hands reaching for me as I grit my teeth against the pain.
“Thomas, if you touch me, I’m going to bean you with one of my crutches.”
He stands back, hands up in the air, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I was just trying to help.”
I close my eyes, wincing against the pain still circulating through my leg as I slowly sit up. Nothing broken from what I can tell. But God, that’s going to leave one heck of a bruise on my hip.
“I know, Thomas.” I sit there on the floor, catching my breath as I force myself to relax, to get my body back under control. “But next time someone tells you they don’t need help, listen.”
“I just—”
“Wanted to help,” I echo wearily. “I know. And I declined your first offer. Why did you keep pushing when I said no?”
I open my eyes to see Thomas staring down at me, a mixture of regret and confusion on his face.
“I…” He blinks at me. “I just…”
“I know,” I say gently. “Thomas, I really appreciate you offering to help. I do. Sometimes I need it. But if I say no, can you please listen to me next time?”
He stands there, looking absolutely miserable, as I slowly maneuver myself into a kneeling position. I reach down and grab my errant crutch, silently cursing as I look at my morning’s shopping strewn across the floor.
“I can…” He pauses, looking around at the mess. “I’d like to help you clean this up. Please?”
“Thank you.” I hiss out a breath and stay on my knees, waiting for the pain to subside. “That would be helpful.”
Thomas darts around the lobby, picking up bread and cheese, a somehow unbroken jar of stone fruit compote, a bunch of herb leaves, and…
I sigh as Thomas picks up a scrap of red material off the floor.
“Is this yours…”
His voice trails off as the material unfolds, revealing a barely there nightie made of scarlet lace. It’s a pointless piece of clothing, one I certainly hadn’t expected to find in the stalls of the Marché. But when I saw it, I imagined myself in it, the lace barely covering my breasts as I watched Rafe move toward the bed, his eyes devouring me as he slowly stripped off his shirt to reveal a muscled chest.
That’s a much more pleasant image than the sight of Thomas holding up the nightie with a slightly scandalized expression on his face in the middle of our apartment lobby.
“Thomas—”