But he did want her to leave him with some self-respect.
“Let. Go.”
At his quiet, rough command, she jerked upright. Blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Those pretty hands were back to flapping uselessly, her throat working as she swallowed.
He jutted his chin toward the porch. “After you.”
No way was he going first and having her hovering behind him, waiting to catch him if he fell.
She went up the stairs, crossed the wide porch to the front door, her movements quick. Easy.
Envy pinched him, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for himself now. He’d get back to 100 percent. Eventually. It would take time, patience and hard work. He had plenty of the first, not nearly enough of the second. And the third? He embraced it. He wasn’t afraid to push himself, was actually looking forward to it. To proving he was more than his perceived limitations. To overcoming the odds and living a normal life—whatever that new normal turned out to be.
He climbed the steps slowly, carefully, leaning to the right to compensate for the weight of his duffel bag on his left. It couldn’t have taken him more than fifteen seconds to reach the top, but it felt like an eternity. Especially knowing Fay watched him, cataloging his every move, nervous and on edge that any moment he might tumble to the ground.
Used to be a time, before his injuries, when women checked him out as he went by, the look in their eyes appreciative. Interested.
Now they either looked at him with pity or their gazes skittered over him, as if it was too painful for them to see him.
He crossed the porch, didn’t miss how pleased and relieved Fay looked, as if he’d successfully scaled Everest instead of conquering a few porch steps.
He reached past her and pulled open the door.
“Thank you,” she murmured, stepping inside. He followed, closing the door behind him.
The foyer was large, bright and airy with a high ceiling, a curving wooden staircase to his left and a set of French doors leading to what looked like a den to his right. The woodwork gleamed, dark and ornate, and wide planks of aged oak covered the floor. Some sort of antique stand with drawers and carved scrolls in the wood was against the far wall, a glass bowl of chocolates on it along with a Welcome to Bradford House sign. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It still took some getting used to—the missing arm, the long hair. The beard.
He rubbed his chin. He really needed to work on his shaving skills.
“You can leave your bag here,” Fay said, indicating the corner under the stairs. “Or you can bring it,” she continued quickly, as if wanting to cover all her bases. “If you’d like.”
He left it. Then followed her down a short hallway that opened up into a sitting room on the right—more French doors—and a library to the left. “Through here is the dining room and kitchen,” she said, gesturing ahead of them. “We serve breakfast each weekday from seven until ten, weekends from eight to eleven.”
She turned into the library, a huge room with floor-to-ceiling windows and three walls of built-in shelves housing what had to be thousands of books. Cozy, plump chairs were tucked into corners, and a few round tables were scattered throughout. “We offer snacks in the library every afternoon and wine and cheese in the den in the evenings,” she continued, leading him through the room and down another short but wide hallway, this one bright with open glass on one side overlooking a patio, a handrail on the other. “We offer basic laundry services, dry cleaning drop-off and pickup, cable television and free Wi-Fi in each room.”
She stopped at the end of the hall, pulled a key—an actual key, not a swipe card—from her pocket and unlocked the door, the width enough for a wheelchair to get through. She went in, flipped on the light, then stepped aside so he could enter.
The room, and the hall, had obviously been built at some point recently, or at least redone, if the lingering scent of paint was anything to go by. But they blended seamlessly with the rest of the building, the floors new but still hardwood, the ceilings high, the windows long and narrow.
It didn’t look like any hotel room he’d ever stayed in, or how he’d expected a room at a charming B&B to look. It had vaulted ceilings and a large four-poster king bed, again, with enough space for a wheelchair to get around. The walls were neutral, with pencil sketches of Shady Grove hanging in thick frames, the color scheme deep greens and pale creams with some gold thrown in.
Other than the bed, there was a flat-screen TV on the wall, a large dresser, a small writing desk and chair under one window and a fat armchair next to the other window. It was a decent blend of masculine and feminine, traditional and contemporary.
She showed him the closet before opening the door to the bathroom. Spacious, with a tile floor and double vanity, there were handrails in both the walk-in shower and jetted tub, and also next to the toilet.
“This is the only guest room with its own external entrance,” she said, leading him out to the French doors—they must have gotten a deal on them—that opened up to a small patio accessible by either stairs or a ramp. To the right there was another ramp, this one longer and wooden, leading to a back entrance of the building.
“We’ll put an awning up in a few weeks,” Fay said, “and set a table and chairs out here, maybe a seating area?” He had no idea if she was telling him her plans or asking for his permission. “Anyway, this room is not only our largest, but it also affords the most privacy.”
It would definitely work, and having his own private entrance would be a hell of a lot better than having to traipse through the entire building every time he came or went.
“Does Shady Grove have a YMCA?” he asked.
“A YM—” She shook her head. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want to stay at the Y? Because I don’t believe they have rooms anymore. Not the one here, anyway.”
“I don’t want to sleep there. I need a place to work out.”
“Work out?” Her gaze flicked to his empty sleeve. “The Y is at least three miles from here, near the river. But if you want to...to exercise, we have a fitness room in the basement.” She crossed to the desk, picked up a brochure and flipped it open. “It’s actually much nicer than anything the Y has,” she said, sounding almost apologetic. “Being a professional athlete, Neil made sure it was top-notch. He even designed it. It doesn’t get much use, though. Most of our guests prefer to relax rather than lift weights while they’re here.”
She handed him the brochure. It listed not only the amenities of Bradford House but also local tourist attractions and restaurants. And the picture she pointed at was of a state-of-the-art gym, complete with everything he’d need to get back in shape.
To get his life back.
He set the brochure down. “I’ll take it.”
* * *
FAY’S FACE HURT from smiling so much.
The cost of always proving to everyone around her that she was mentally and emotionally healthy and just so darn happy. All. The. Time.
She couldn’t let that smile slip, not one bit. Not now.
I’ll take it.
Mr. Castro, of the dark eyes, grim mouth and deep, flat voice, was going to rent a room here. All because she’d chased him down and given him her best sales pitch.
Oh, Lord, what had she done?
“That’s...wonderful,” she managed, cheeks aching, lips stretched wide. And it was wonderful. They were in the business of renting rooms, after all, and they weren’t booked full until the July Fourth weekend. “We’ll go to my office and get you registered.”
As much as she wanted to let him go ahead of her, she knew better. She’d tried