Going Wild (The Wild Ones 2)

He could bathe himself, in all honesty. But that’s part of my reward for being so selfless. Clearly, he must know this, because he continues to let me sponge him off once a day.

The fire alarm wailing suddenly snaps me out of my trance, and I curse as I use a set of tongs to grab the flaming rag of doom off the stove and toss it into the sink. I’m still calling it a string of names as I drown out the fire. When the smoke rages on, I grab a broom to start fanning the smoke away from the fire alarm.

After that doesn’t work, I run to open two windows, then I grab a chair so I can get higher up to wave the smoke away. Short people problems.

Just as I’m starting to make progress, I hear a whoosh, and I look over my shoulder in horror as the pan I have on the stove—that is cooking lunch—suddenly spurts up a massive flame.

How is this even happening to me right now?!

“Everything okay in there?” Liam calls, sounding a little concerned.

“Fine!” I yell, panicking as I search for something to put the fire out.

“There’s a fire extinguisher under the sink,” he tells me, his voice carrying over the mayhem and stupid freaking fire alarm.

“Ha! No fire in here! Just got a little smoky!” I yell as I dive to the sink and grab the fire extinguisher.

In Liam’s house, it’s like a canyon in the sense that when you yell, “Hellloooo,” you’re going to hear it echo thirty times. So I shouldn’t be surprised that the fire extinguisher makes one hell of a monstrous telling noise as I spray down all the flames.

One tiny little spark of fire reignites, and I spray the shit out of it again, panting as I finally lower the fire extinguisher and stare at the charred mess with extinguisher goo all over it.

This day…sucks chipmunk balls.

Annoyed, I climb back up on that chair, rip the fire alarm off the wall, and…realize it’s not just that alarm going wild, it’s also the fancy, state-of-the-art alarm system he has.

The land line—yes, I call it a land line—rings, and I run to answer it, hearing the security company asking me questions about said fire mayhem. I explain to them that I just can’t cook, but that we’re not actually burning to death or anything.

“I’m afraid I’m going to need to speak to Mr. Harper,” the woman tells me.

“Liam, the phone’s for you,” I call out, grimacing.

“Got it in here.” I wait a beat. “Anything still on fire?” he asks, sounding amused more than anything.

“No.”

I turn around, cursing this day from hell, and go to clean the mess up a little before making him a sandwich. Personally, I’ve lost my appetite.

When I walk into his room, he’s grinning from ear to ear, and I hand him the sandwich I slaved over.

“All that for a sandwich?” he muses.

I ignore him as I climb up on the bed, and he laughs under his breath as he eats his sandwich.

“I have tons of takeout menus,” he finally tells me in between bites.

“I know. I was just trying to do something nice,” I grumble as he finishes the last bite—since he can inhale food—and puts the plate on the bedside table.

He tugs one of my curls, which is something he seems to love to do, as I shift into his side, getting comfortable on the bed while finding something to watch.

He doesn’t take it seriously, but me being cooped up is a bad thing. Dangerous thing. Things like the hairdryer happen after a while. Along with the wild fire.

There will be more accidents, no doubt. Unless I start painting a hell of a lot more.

But he can’t go out, and I don’t want him feeling guilty for me getting crazy from being stuck inside. Well, he could go out, but it hurts him to move around a whole lot, so it’d be pointless and selfish for me to expect that. And the wheelchair really hurts him because of his ribs. He can’t roll himself, and he can’t sit—reclining is necessary. Or lying flat.

“Got a boyfriend back home?” he asks randomly, his hand sliding across my stomach with a little too much familiarity.

“Nope. Beards aren’t my thing.”

I feel his confusion like it’s a real, tangible thing.

“Okay…got a girlfriend back home?”

I realize how that must have sounded when he follows up with that question, and I laugh, shaking my head. “No. I’m into guys.”

His hand slides lower, touching just the top of my pajama shorts.

“So no one is going to get upset if I touch you?” he asks, dipping his head next to my ear.

I make a sound of surprise when he kisses me just under my ear, and my body tenses.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, feeling his hand slowly start to move under my shorts.