Southern Heart by Madison, Natasha (best fiction novels .txt) 📕

first time. "Is that so?" he says, swinging his feet off the couch. "You sure about that?"

"How about we bet," I tell him, putting the plates in the sink and ignoring the beating of my heart. "When you get better." I fold my arms over my chest. "You do the chase. I bet you won’t catch me."

"What do I win?" he asks me. "Usually, when the boy chases the girl, he gets the girl." He limps over a bit. "So what happens if I catch you?"

"Only way to find that out," I say, advancing on him, "is to catch the girl." I see his chest rise and fall. "Now, if you want, I can come in and wash you up."

"Do I look like I need you to give me a sponge bath?" he asks.

"Even tough guys like baths sometimes." I smirk at him.

"Not this tough guy." He folds his arms over his chest now. I take a second to see the orange flower on his arm. The bright green leaves make it pop more.

"Well, then, you can stay dirty," I start to say, and he smiles. "Or…"

"Why?" he moans out. "Why must you put an or in there?”

"Or you can have me sponge you off," I tell him, and he smirks at me.

"You really want to wash me"—he winks at me now—"all you had to do is ask.”

"You are lucky you have a bullet wound, and I can’t hurt you," I tell him, knowing right now that my cheeks are turning a bright red.

"Thank you,” he says softly when I walk back over to him and grab his empty tray.

“You’re welcome,” I say softly and walk back to the kitchen. He moves his leg now and starts to get up.

“Are you tired?” I ask, and he tries to deny it. “Go rest. I’ll come in and check you after.

I’ll come and change your bandages." I shake my head.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles now as he makes his way back to the bedroom.

"And just for that, I won’t even come running if you fall!” I yell to his back.

He laughs, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh so much since we met. Trust me, I would know since I used to watch him every single fucking time. "You lie."

When he turns and walks back to the bedroom, I ignore that my heart is pounding so hard and so fast it sounds like a group of galloping horses. "What the fuck was that?" I ask, putting my hands to my forehead to check if I have a fever. "Was he flirting with me?" I look back toward the room where he disappeared.

I walk over to the sink and try not to have my head overthink it. He is just being polite, my head says. The conversation plays over and over again in my head, and I’m brought back to the first time my feelings for him went from crush to something else.

I walked into the barn, rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t know you were in here.” I lied straight to his face. I knew exactly where he was. Every single time he came to one of our barbecues, I knew exactly where he was at every single time. I would try and talk to him but all he would give me was a grunt or one-word answers and I was tired of him not seeing me. So I was taking things into my own hands.

“I’m sorry.” He stood up from the stool he was sitting on. “I didn’t think anyone was going to come in here,” he said and just looked at me.

“I was just coming to check on my horse”—I walked over to stand in front of him—“but if you need privacy.”

“If anyone should leave, it’s me,” he said, as he walked over to stand right in front of me. “I just.”

“They can be overwhelming”—I smiled at him and he just smirked as he looked down—“but they mean no harm.”

“It wasn’t your family.” His voice came out in a whisper as he looked at me without his stupid glasses. I saw his eyes filled with turmoil and I tilted my head and I wanted to ask him what it was, but Quinn came in and interrupted us.

I blink when the water that is running on my hands turns cold as ice. Turning off the faucet, I gather the dish towel and walk toward the spare bedroom, seeing him in bed with his eyes closed.

I walk back to my bathroom and get two basins and some towels for when he wakes up. I clean the kitchen, and an hour later, I walk to the bedroom and check on him. I try to be as quiet as I can when I walk in, and his eyes spring open. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, and he rubs his face with his hand. Grabbing the bowl, I make my way to the bathroom and fill it up with warm water.

“I thought you were joking,” he says, looking at me coming back with one of the bowls.

“I never joke about sponge baths,” I tell him, walking back to grab another bowl. I grab two towels and walk to him. “Turn on your side,” I tell him, and he turns on one side, and I tuck a towel under him, repeating it on the other side. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, and I press the button for his bed to sit up more.

“Can you take off your T-shirt?” I ask him, and he takes it off slowly. I swallow now as I look at him with his shirt off. I put one of the face towels into the hot water and rub the bar of soap on it. “Let me know if this is too hot,” I tell him as I put it on his chest. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, and I tell myself he’s just another patient. I tell