Page 12 of Distant Shores (Stapled Magnolias #2)

ADAIR

I curled my fingers to grip the cuffs of my flannel and stared, the room holding its breath in the wake of such a question.

Beck Sewell wasn’t what I expected—not that I knew what to expect from any of this. But the ruggedly handsome man who looked to be somewhere in his early sixties, with long “hippie” hair, as Pops probably would’ve called it, definitely wasn’t it.

He’d been inattentive during the meeting so far but hadn’t given me the vibe that he was agitated or aggressive, which I had a decent radar for because of my job.

He was more… eccentric , if I had to put a name to it.

There was even the hint of a smirk on his face as he glanced at his daughter, who covered her eyes with her hand as she muttered, “You can’t just ask people that, Dad.”

Pops shifted beside me. “It’s all right, darlin’,” he said. “And Beck, to answer your question, I love sports and I live near Atlanta. Not easy teams to stand by most years. Does kind of feel like demons are at work.” He paused, his expression falling just a little. “Or I did, I mean. Live there.”

Silence fell again until the nurse who’d pulled out the chair for me spoke up.

“You’ll, um, find that Mr. Beck has quite a… sense of humor.”

Beck’s daughter turned her head toward the nurse, an annoyed look on her face that smoothed into a careful blankness so fast that I wasn’t sure if I’d just imagined it.

I certainly hadn’t imagined how striking she was.

Director Links cleared her throat. “Now that introductions are out of the way, why don’t we go tour the apartment? Then we can discuss any questions you all might have, and maybe Mr. Sewell and Mr. Smith can get to know each other better.”

I had a feeling that wasn’t her original plan but more of a strategic pivot. Everyone seemed to agree with it, though. Pops stood up beside me and clapped me on the back before heading toward the door.

I was about to follow him, but then Beck’s daughter stood up from her chair and leaned over to help her dad out of his.

They shared smiles, and she shook her head at him in exasperation, muttering something to him quietly.

He got to his feet quickly, more agile than expected, which meant that she guided him out of his chair as an act of love, not necessity.

The urge to learn her name, to have her look into my eyes and hear her voice as she said it, nearly overwhelmed me.

If only Delly were here. She wouldn’t hesitate to…

Mr. Sewell’s daughter stepped away from the table, and I saw them.

Knees.

Scraped knees .

I’d finally found her.

Thanks to my very new habit of looking at everyone’s knees since yesterday’s incident in the street, I’d probably earned myself a reputation in coastal Alabama as a very specific kind of pervert.

But now it’d paid off, and I could finally correct my mistake. Glancing up at her, I stilled when I found her looking at me.

Scowling at me.

I cringed, unsure how long I’d been staring at her legs, then pulled my glasses off to rub my hand over my face.

Lordy.

When I put them back on, she was almost out the door. Panic seized me as she stepped through the door into the hallway.

“Wait!” I yelled, grabbing my crutch and scrambling to my feet.

She paused, muscles tensed before she turned toward me and arched a brow.

“It’s you,” I said dumbly, ambling toward her like a toddler who’d just learned to walk.

Her brow furrowed before she glanced out into the hallway.

“From yesterday?” She tucked her hair behind her ear, not meeting my eyes. “Yeah, I’m…. I’m sorry about that.”

I followed her out of the conference room and into the bright hallway, my nose twitching at the smell of lemon-scented antiseptic. “It wasn’t your fault. I was the one standing in the road.”

Her brows furrowed even deeper, making her look all the more intense. I quickly looked over every inch of her I could, wondering if she’d been hurt anywhere else. The scrapes on her knees were obvious, but she could have strained muscles too .

My nerves fell away as I entered problem-solving mode. “Do you know the nurse’s name?” I asked as we neared the rest of the group, who were waiting by the elevator.

“Emily,” she said tightly.

“Emily!” I called, hobbling forward in double-time.

The cheery nurse spun around and smiled brightly at me. “Yes?”

“Do you know where I could find a first aid kit?”

She looked me over with a frown. “Are you okay?”

“Yep.”

She stared at me for a beat, but then the elevator dinged, and she waved her hand at the nurse’s station. “They should have what you need.”

I smiled. “Thanks. Could you also tell me what apartment number we’re headed to?”

She consulted her tablet. “3A.”

“Thank you. Could you tell Director Links that… Mr. Sewell’s daughter and I will meet you all there shortly?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, which was apparently the exact effect I was having on women today, but then she nodded.

She caught up to the group and stepped onto the elevator just as longboard girl tried to pass me.

“ Hey ,” I called after her. “Could I have a moment of your time?”

She glanced at the elevator, very obviously debating the question, but then stepped toward me, watching the elevator doors as they closed.

I inched closer to her. “It’ll only take a moment.

I just really need to check on your knees,” I explained, employing my best professional tone.

“Please, just wait here.” Then I made for the nurse’s station, ignoring the voice that cackled in my head at my awkwardness. It sounded suspiciously like Delly’s.

At least the nurse at the counter was prompt and helpful when I asked for what I needed, and when I turned back to the hallway, I breathed a sigh of relief.

She was still here. All five foot, four inches of her, not at all looking like she took a bad fall just yesterday.

I checked out the hallway for a good place to do this and spotted a bench against the wall just a few feet away, right under a huge window.

“Would you mind sitting there so I can, um…”

I waved the supplies in the direction of the bench, then dropped my hand awkwardly and avoided her gaze, which wasn’t hard, since she was staring fixedly out the window.

It was raining now, the droplets beating against the thick glass. It hadn’t been raining when we came in.

“Sure,” she said finally. Hesitantly. “But they really aren’t bad. I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Please. It’s been haunting me. It’d really be more of a favor for me.”

She snorted, but what I said seemed to do the trick, as she walked to the bench and sat down.

Well, it was more accurate to say she glided there. Graceful and silent.

I pulled my shirt away from my body, suddenly wishing I were in uniform. This would be so much easier that way.

I followed and carefully set my supplies on the bench. “Stay here. I need to wash my hands first.” I gestured to the hallway bathroom just a few feet away, and she raised her eyebrows at me. I cringed as I heard how I’d sounded. “Please, I mean. Please stay.”

“Okay,” she said after a beat.

“Okay,” I repeated.

A couple minutes later, I had freshly washed hands, having taken the time to sing the handwashing song from The Wiggles that Delly loved as a kid. When I returned to the bench, her upper body turned toward the window as she watched the rain.

“I need to get back to my dad soon,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at me.

I leaned my crutch against the gleaming wooden bench—everything was so clean and shiny here.

“This won’t take long,” I assured her. “He seemed aware of himself when they left, but I know how quickly that can change, so I’ll be extra quick.”

She stilled, then glanced at me curiously. “Are you sure you’re qualified for this?”

I smiled. “I literally am. Now, umm….” I eyed the space between me and her knee. “Hold on.” Tentatively, I slid my wrapped ankle behind me, then bent the knee of my other leg in a sort of lunge.

She lurched forward with her hands extended. “You really don’t have to—” She stopped talking the moment my knee hit the ground.

I let out a relieved breath and smiled in victory. “I’ll have to tell Delly her yoga classes paid off,” I said as I adjusted my glasses. “My sister went through a whole yoga phase in high school,” I explained. “Didn’t last as long as the crocheting phase or the sourdough-making one.”

She didn’t respond, and I wasn’t quite ready to look up and see her reaction to my rambling, so I took a breath and tried to convince myself this was like another day at work.

“Are you okay with me cleaning these scrapes? They’re not too bad, but I’ve seen what can happen when even the most minor of cuts get infected.

” Nerves steadier, I finally mustered the courage to look directly at her. “You really don’t want it to….”

I lost my words .

There was no way.

No way this was real.

That she was real.

She had the bluest eyes I had ever seen. The bluest blue I had ever seen, and considering I was…

She tilted her head as we regarded each other, her gaze so striking, so intense , I lost my train of thought.

She was assessing me, and Lordy, I had never tested well.

I was in trouble.

Sweat beaded my neck as I blindly reached for the bandages and alcohol swab packet, my hand steady even as my insides were busy rifling through every bit of data I had about the color blue, reassessing all previous encounters with it.

“This might sting a bit,” I warned as I tore open the package. “Did you hit your head on impact? Experience any dizziness since yesterday?”

“No to both,” she answered, and I nodded.

“Good. Now, deep breath,” I watched her keenly, and when she did as I asked, I swiped the wipe across her cuts.

There was no hiss of pain. No startling whatsoever.

She held my gaze like a challenge, and my lips twitched.

She was stone cold.

I’d cleaned more lacerations than I could remember over the past ten years, and I had a pretty good eye for patients who would rather throw themselves into a live volcano than show signs of weakness.

And she was definitely one of them.

I may not test well, but I could do this without faltering, working quickly and thoroughly. Within a minute, I had antibacterial cream and bandages on every single cut I could find .

“All done.”

She extended her leg and inspected my work. “Tidy,” she complimented.

“Thank you.”

Our eyes met again, and the trash scraps from the bandages crinkled as I fisted my hand against my thigh.

“Need a hand up?” she asked.

“Please.”

She stood up, and a fresh wave of lavender crested over me as she held out her hand.

I slid my hand into hers, not for a moment doubting her strength.

She helped me up, and when I was taller than her again, our eyes met.

This time, when she put my crutch under my arm, she was gentle.