This chapter is brought to you by the thoughts that ran through my head as I was waking up from my nap this afternoon.

Chapter 44

"So, Bobby," I said, turning my head in my bent over position so that I was able to look more at his face than the shoes I'd been staring out for the last thirty seconds or so as I attempted to stretch out the kink in my back that had been bothering me all morning. My beat-up sneakers were comfortable and worn in just the way I liked them, even if they did show evidence of all the unfortunate encounters I'd had with garbage, food and unmentionable bodily fluids. They weren't pretty, but they did the job. Beside Bobby's sneakers, though, my sneakers looked like they should be ritually burned to release the demons possessing them.

"So, Steph," Bobby replied, imitating both my words and my tone to let me know I'd paused in my contemplation longer than was socially acceptable.

I tried to hide a grimace as I straightened and the muscles in my lower back twinged in protest. "I've been meaning to ask you about your shoes," I said, hoping he was sufficiently distracted by his own cool down stretches that my pain coasted under the radar. I'd take some time with the shower massager when I got upstairs to hopefully ease the tension there and maybe rub some of the anti-inflammatory gel Bobby had given me for my shoulder into it. If that didn't fix it I'd think about getting a massage or seeing my doctor.

"My shoes, huh?" he asked, switching his position to stretch out a different part of his body. "What about them?"

"Well, they're pretty bright," I pointed out, continuing my own careful stretches. "And I don't think I've ever seen you in the same pair twice."

He nodded but made no move to explain his choices in foot attire. Instead, we both lapsed into silence for several minutes as we completed our post-run ritual. I had obtained zero information on the source of my curiosity and it didn't look like he was prepared to provide any. It was strange how sometimes getting the guys to talk was easy as pie, but other times – especially about seemingly innocuous topics – it was like pulling teeth. I'd thought Bobby and I had developed a nice open line of communication in the last three weeks, running and chatting every day, but every now and then he'd just close up on me. Like right now.

"Well," I sighed, adjusting the ball cap I was wearing to tuck a curl back up under it. "I'll see you tomorrow? Usual time?" I was already turning to head back up to my apartment, not needing to wait around for a prolonged conversation.

"Steph, wait," he called, hurrying a couple of steps to catch up to me as I laid my hand on the door handle. "You didn't ask me about my shoes," he pointed out, laughter creeping into his tone as he shook his head. "I've been waiting for your questions. I assume you have multiple questions about them."

I shook my head. Of course, he was waiting for me to actually ask a question before he'd talk. I thought back to the interaction and gave myself a mental head slap. I'd told him I'd been meaning to ask him about his shoes, and then when he'd given me the nod to proceed with the questions, I'd made a couple of statements instead, hoping that he'd elaborate on them. I should have known he was in a pedantic mood from the quips he'd made during the run.

"I have so many questions," I told him, smiling slightly. Now that I realised he wasn't being cagey and avoiding the subject, I couldn't help but be relieved. "About the shoes and so much more."

He grinned, and pushed the door open for me. "How about we go upstairs and I'll answer some of those questions over breakfast?" he suggested. "And then I can take a look at your back for you."

I tried to contain my surprise; I thought I'd hidden my issues with my back pretty well. "How did you -?"

"Your discomfort has been obvious all morning," Bobby informed me gesturing for me to enter the building ahead of him. "It showed in every move you made. You pace and gait was slower and more cautious, and your attempts to mask your pained expressions were almost comical."

Upstairs, I discarded my shoes in the entry way like I always did, and Bobby followed suit so that the contrast between our sneakers was even more noticeable as they mingled on the floor: scrappy and greyish next to fluorescent and sleek. We padded through to the kitchen in socked feet where Bobby proceeded to sift through the contents of my refrigerator to assemble a delicious breakfast of French toast and mixed berries while I set the coffee going.

As the stack of toast grew on the plate beside the stove, I settled into a seat at the table with my coffee. For a few moments, I just watched him as he worked, wearing that ridiculously frilly pink apron again like he did every time he cooked in my kitchen. I was sure it wasn't mine, I'd looked for it when I was the only one home and couldn't find a trace of it, but it always turned up on his body right before he started his chef act. Either it was his, and he somehow kept it with him at all times so he was ready for kitchen action at a moment's notice, or it was mine and he hid it somewhere I hadn't thought to look for it. Either way, it was hard not to appreciate the view.

"How many shoes do you own?" I asked, shifting in my chair in an attempt to find a position that didn't send pain shooting down from my back to my buttocks.

"Individual shoes or pairs?" he shot back, reaffirming his nitpicky mood as he set a bowl full of berries in front of me. "Cos that makes a big difference in the total number."

I just rolled my eyes, popping a blueberry in my mouth. "Pairs, Bobby," I drawled. "Why would I want to know the individual shoe number?"

He shrugged and took a couple of berries for himself and sending me a grin. "Maybe I have a collection of single shoes?"

My eyebrows shot up. "Do you?"

"No," he laughed, turning back to the stove. "I have two feet, what would I want with single shoes?"

The banter continued as Bobby transferred the toast from the counter to the table and we dug in. The information gathering was slow going, but by the time we'd finished the food my curiosity had been sated somewhat. He had around fifty pairs of limited-edition sneakers (which he assures me is a thing) kept in mint condition in a display cabinet, with another ten or so pairs that he cycled through to wear when he wasn't at work. The majority of the sneakers were flamboyantly bright because, he explained, after a lifetime of being forced to dress in muted tones so he could fade into the background, he liked the exciting pop of colour they brought to his life. I was surprised by how happy they appeared to make him, having never encountered a guy with a thing for shoes like this. Women, sure, we were stereotypically shoe hoarders. But men?

I couldn't begrudge him the habit, though. It was, after all, his life, and he'd worked hard to get to the point to where he had the freedom to express himself in such a way. Hell, he'd been likely been put through the wringer in the army, if brightly coloured shoes were what made him happy, anyone who said a word against them could answer to me. And I wasn't as easy an opponent as I once was.

Once the food was gone and we'd cleaned up the mess, Bobby instructed me to accompany him to the living room so he could see to my back. Relief washed through me at his choice of location. For a while there I was afraid he was going to suggest I lay down on the bed so he could examine my back, and I wasn't at all sure that was a good move for our friendship.

We'd created an easy atmosphere between us, keeping things light and fluffy. Our morning runs were routine: we met in the parking lot, warmed up, engaged in idle chit-chat when our breathing allowed during the course Bobby set, then parted ways after our cool down back at the parking lot. And that was all the time we spent alone together aside from last week when he had been in a mood over something that happened at work and just needed a change of scenery.

I'd received his text asking if he could come over and hang out just as I was settling into the couch for a viewing of Ghostbusters. He'd joined me and we'd sat side by side in companionable silence for the duration. When the credits were rolling and I was trying suppress a yawn, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders in a hug, thanked me for letting him stay and let himself out. Not a word had been exchanged about what had put him in the mood, and I hadn't tried to cajole him out of it, but when he stood to leave he was significantly more relaxed than when he'd arrived, like just spending time with me had calmed the storm inside him.

The underlying problem with spending time alone with Bobby and the possibility of it moving to the bedroom, was the fact that I knew he had feelings for me. We'd agreed to stick to the friendzone, which was fine by me, but I couldn't get the thought that this perpetual limbo wasn't fair on Bobby. He'd laid his feelings out from the get go and now he'd just, what? Shoved them in a box or something? That had to be hard on him. But I definitely wasn't ready for a more intimate relationship right now. I wasn't sure I'd ever be ready for a romantic relationship again. Not after everything I'd been through. I also didn't want to do anything to hurt Bobby or ruin the friendship we had. Being in the bedroom together even for a medical purpose seemed unnecessarily precarious. It was much better to keep to neutral grounds to spare Bobby's feelings and my anxiety for them.

Shifting the coffee table out of the way, he got me to lie down on the floor and gently manipulated my body into the appropriate position so that he could guide it through some twists until finally I felt the tension in my back release, like a puzzle piece slipping back into place. I stifled a moan as he released my leg and stepped back, smirking down at me.

"Better?" he asked.

"So much," I said, flopping into my thinking position so I could stare up at him. "Thank you."

He extended a hand to help me off the floor and I allowed him to pull me up. "What are your plans for the day?" he asked as he moved the coffee table back into position.

"Morning check in with the girls at the Bonds Office," I listed off on my fingers as I laid out my day. "Drive by a few locations for some skips. I organised with Tank to use his gym before lunch. And then hopefully catching a criminal or two before my therapist appointment this afternoon."

Bobby nodded. "Be careful of your back," he warned. "I'll send you through some exercises to strengthen the muscles so you're less likely to throw it out in the future, but you need to make sure you pay attention to your posture while you're doing them. Use the mirror."

"Got it," I said as I followed him to the door. "Be vain and look at myself while exercising. Should I take gym selfies? Maybe start a fit-stagram?"

He grinned up at me as he bent to tie his laces. "So long as you get your exercises done, I don't mind what you do," he assured me. "Although I'm not sure adding a social media profile to your already privacy-lacking life is what you want to do right now, do you?"

I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me. He was right. The last thing the world needed was more information about the life of the Bombshell Bounty Hunter. I'd already been subject to countless exposés in the paper. I didn't really want to give them more fodder. "Good point," I agreed. "I'll stick to just checking my posture."

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, straightening and unlocking my door and stepping out into the hall. "And don't try to hide your injuries next time."

I sent him a mock salute, one hand resting on the edge of the door, and was rewarded with a small smile, a head shake and a muttered, "Smartass," as he turned toward the stairs.

"See ya, Bobby!" I called after him.

"See ya, Steph," he replied with a wave over his shoulder.

*o*

The cats were already assembled in the kitchen when I slipped in the back door of Tank's house. I wasn't sure if it was because they'd been expecting me, or if they'd heard the locks tumble and had quickly scrambled into their welcoming committee formation. "Hi guys," I greeted, as I hung the spare key Tank had given me on the hook by the door and made sure the alarm was engaged. "Did Tank tell you I was coming?" A meow from the sleek black one was all the reply I received, so I dropped my handbag on the counter and dug out my cell phone, ready for the inevitable check in call. "Three, two, one." It started ringing right on cue and I sent the cats a knowing glance. They did not seem at all impressed by my powers of prediction.

"Hey Tank," I greeted, pressing the phone to my ear as I worked my way around the room, dolling out affection to his feline housemates. "I have locked the door and set the alarm just the way you showed me. Just like the last four times. Are you going to be calling every time I come over? Because I feel like, at this point, a post-it note reminder is probably sufficient."

"It's not just you I'm checking up on, little girl," the big guy pointed out. "I like to know how the cats are going."

"Sure," I rolled my eyes, picking up my handbag once more and making my way through the house to the spare room he'd converted into a home gym. "Like you don't have one of those nanny cam systems set up to keep an eye on them every second of the day. And don't you have one of those video chat food bowl things as well?" He said nothing, which was all the confirmation I needed. "You're an overprotective cat mother," I told him. "And an overprotective friend, but I love you for it anyway. So, what can I do to ease your mother hen tendencies?"

"Just make sure the cats don't get into gym," Tank said, reiterating the reminder he made every single time I used it. His avoidance of my question said that I would be enduring the phone calls for the foreseeable future, so I may as well get used to them.

"Aye, aye, Captain," I confirmed, shooing a couple of cats away as I reached the door at the end of the hall. "Is that all?"

"If you could fill up the water dish before you leave, that'd be great," he replied. "Tiddles knocked it over about twenty minutes ago during one of her skittish dashes through the house." And with that, he hung up. I don't know what I'd envisioned my life to be like once I got home from training with Brandon, but I'm pretty sure playing a part in Tank's helicopter parenting hadn't been on the list.

And with that I have surpassed my Camp NaNoWriMo goal of 37500 words for the month of April. (I did even decide to set a goal until last week when I realised I'd written A LOT of words this month).