Ben deserved better. She would face him when he got back. By then she should know whether this was a passing phase or something more, something serious. Doing the right thing—heck, just knowing what was the right thing—wasn’t always easy.
Libby carried two tray tables she’d bought at the grocer’s into Chance’s bedroom. This way she could keep him company while still having a good view of the grill. By the time she dragged them into the room, Chance was awake and Cowboy was gone.
“Enjoy your nap?” she asked as she set one of the tables by his bed. She would not look at his flat, naked stomach. She would ignore his six-pack and the muscles bulging in his arms.
His sleepy gaze landed on her chest and then slowly traveled down the front of her tank top and jean skirt, passed her bare legs to her flashy flip flops. “Your cat was squatting on me when I woke up. Guess he didn’t hear you when you told him this room was off limits.”
She shrugged, as much to shake off the feelings bubbling up inside as to show indifference, as she clicked the support in place and righted the table. “I told you he was an independent sort. It didn’t look like you minded.”
“You spied on us?”
“Yeah, and it didn’t look like either of you wanted to be disturbed.”
He lifted his gaze to her face. “Guess I can put up with things. For a while.”
Was he talking about the cat or her? Libby set the other table by the foot of the bed.
“You eating in here with me?”
“I thought you might like the company.”
“Maybe.” He leaned against the headboard and folded his arms over his chest.
“I’ll open your curtains so I can keep an eye on the grill,” she said, walking over to the French doors.
“Got it working without me, did you?”
She pushed back one side of the curtains.
“Holy hell!” he yelled.
Stunned, Libby watched thick yellow-and-gray plumes of fire shoot upward from the middle of the grill.
In a heartbeat, Chance was up, jumping on one foot. He flung open a French door and hobbled out. Pain etched deep lines in his face.
“Chance, what are you doing?” She sprinted out behind him.
The flames reached up to the open grill lid.
“Trying to save my house from a dang-blame blaze,” he barked.
“Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself. I’ll get some water.”
Ignoring her plea, he hobbled forward. Swiping an oven mitt she’d discarded on the nearby patio table, he covered his hand and, cursing the whole time, limped to the side of the grill and reached for the lid. With a slam, the lid banged closed. Smoke escaped along the edges. He turned the grill knobs. Smoke continued to swirl about but had already lightened from black to gray.
Chance took an awkward step and opened the grill cabinet doors.
“What are you doing?” she asked, feeling helpless.
“Turning off the propane.”
When he straightened, he stood, his hands on his hips, his head bent low, breathing small little breaths like a sprinter who had just finished a punishing race.
She ran to him. “You shouldn’t be on that foot.”
“Pain,” he choked out as he flung the oven mitt to the ground.
She placed her shoulder under his arm and instantly felt the pressure of his body as it sagged against her. His hair was hanging down over his eyes, covering his face so she couldn’t tell how much pain, but she knew it had to be a lot.
He didn’t make a sound until he came inside and sank onto the bed and against the pillows propped on the headboard. Then a deep, rib-rattling moan came out that made her heart ache. She’d done this to him. Good intentions aside, she’d done this.
“Pillows. Under my foot,” he croaked out as his eyes rolled back in his head.
She hurried to set the pillows in place. Then, as gently as she could, she lifted his foot. His face was rigid, his lips thin.
“I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, feeling to her very depths the inadequacy of her apology. “Are you all right?”
His mouth was strained into a flat line. “I will be. You didn’t get near the fire, though? You didn’t get burned, right?”
“Other than my pride going up in flames, so to speak, no problems here.”
His breathing was slow, shallow.
“Can I get you something for the pain, Chance? That Perco…something?”
He shook his head, his eyes jammed shut as if he couldn’t stand to look at her. “I’m liable to get real sloppy on those.”
“What can I do?” she asked, feeling helpless.
“Just need rest,” he ground out. “Check the steaks.”
“There’s probably not much left of them. They certainly aren’t going to be rare like you like ’em.”
He grimaced. “Don’t make me laugh, Libby. I already feel like a prizefighter’s punching bag.” A sheen of moisture covered his body, and his skin was pale. If she hadn’t been here, he’d have had a nice, quiet, painless dinner of cereal.
“Be careful when you open that lid,” he warned through gritted teeth. “Everything’s going to be plenty hot. Wear two oven mitts.”
She promised to be careful and went to check on dinner—or what was left of it.