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I narrow my eyes. “You think so?”
“Yes.” His gaze darts to the stairs where Thomas vanished moments ago. “Just in case.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, you can take the stairs and meet me up there. The elevator won’t fit both of us.”
I turn away from him and move toward the elevator.Elevatoris a generous term, given that it can barely fit two people. But the elevator is what made me living in this building possible. It’s slow and occasionally makes a grinding noise that has me questioning if it’s going to just randomly stall and strand me between floors.
Yet I love it. I love everything about this building, from the old marble floors to the wrought-iron railing, all the way down to the quirky foreign exchange students.
The elevator door slides open. I move into the tiny compartment and turn around to see Rafe standing just beyond the threshold, his expression hard.
“You think I’m overreacting.”
“Yes.”
“He knocked you down.”
“He did.”
I want to tell him how much it means to me that he cares, that he wants to protect me. But I also can’t stand back and let others fight my battles for me anymore. I did that for years. I’m not going to slip back into old patterns.
“Rafe,” I say gently, “it was an accident.”
“Just because it was an accident doesn’t mean he gets a free pass.”
I sigh, caught between agreeing with him and not wanting to see Thomas penalized for what happened.
“Yes, he made a mistake. Had he been dismissive about it, or cruel or careless, I would agree with you.” I put my hand up to stop the door from closing. “But he wasn’t, Rafe. He was apologetic and, before you showed up, I think he truly realized what he had done. People make mistakes, but they can also fix them.”
His glower deepens.
“Perhaps. But people can also simply be people. They can fail.”
CHAPTER SIX
Tessa
THE ELEVATOR DOORS CLOSE. The car rises, so slowly and with an occasional grinding noise that makes my jaw tense. Exhaustion from the whirlwind of the last five minutes has me leaning against the wall for support. After what feels like an eternity, the elevator finally reaches the top floor. The doors slide open to reveal Rafe leaning casually against the doorway, the lingerie thankfully out of sight. Maybe he threw it in the trash. I’m too tired to care right now.
I move past him, keeping my eyes focused on my door and off my husband’s dark, brooding handsomeness.
“Did you take the stairs two at a time?”
“I should have waited at the bottom in case it crashed.”
“It’s not the Ritz,” I shoot back over my shoulder, “but it’s functional.”
I jam the key into the lock and twist. The door swings open and I walk into my own version of paradise.
Ever since I first walked into what the Realtor called “the apartment under the eaves,” I knew a sense of calm I had never experienced before. From the white crown molding and tan wood floors, to the small fireplace with a mirror hung above it and the huge windows with dormers that looked out over the city, it was love at first sight. Every morning, I’m treated to a view of Paris’s rooftops dusted with the rose gold of sunrise. All I have to do is glance out my living room window to see the Eiffel Tower. The tiny balcony off the bedroom I’ve converted into my office is just big enough for a tiny table and chair. My bedroom used to be a linen closet long ago, the bed extending out of a wall made up of numerous shelves. The entire apartment is half the size of my bedroom back in Santorini.
I love every square inch of it.
I move into the small kitchen and set my bag on the counter, conscious of my husband glancing around my space as I put groceries away. Evaluating, analyzing, assessing. He can look all he wants. I know it’s not the luxury he’s grown up in all his life. I doubt he’ll understand the value of my surroundings, the peace it’s brought me even as I’ve adapted to a different style of living.
I brace myself against the counter and pull the bag holding my wheelchair out of the closet.
“May I carry that for you?”