Free Until We Fly (The Beautifully Broken) by Courtney Cole

grumbles as he limps past me. 
    “Me either,” I tell him.  “But we can figure it out.”
    We.
    The butterflies start flying again, hard and fast, in my stomach.  Brand turns to look at me. 
    “We?”
    I nod. “Yeah.  What kind of nurse would I be if I didn’t help?  Go lie down on your bed.  I’ll be there in a minute with the stuff.”
    Brand rolls his eyes and mutters beneath his breath, but he hobbles away. I rush to the kitchen and get a huge bowl of warm water before I stop at the hall closet for washcloths, towels and soap.  My hands shake the entire time. 
    What the hell am I doing?
    Why is he letting me do it?
    He must want me to. 
    That knowledge, that theory, fuels me on and forces me into his bedroom.  My window of opportunity to be with this man is closing by the day. 
    I can’t waste it.
    Grow a pair, Nora.
    I set the bowl down on his nightstand and glance down.  He’s reclining on his back, his towel covering his midriff and groin.  His hands are behind his head and he’s every inch casual and cool as he waits for me. 
    I wonder if he’s as anxious on the inside as I am? 
    Of course not.  Because he doesn’t know what I have planned.
    He glances at me. 
    “So, where do we start?”
    His voice is husky and sexy and….gah.  I want to run out of the room and hide in my own, because I don’t know what I’m doing here. 
    I only know what I want. 
    I want him. 
    “We start by washing off your arms,” I tell him, calmly and professionally, as I move to his side.  He grins up at me. 
    “Sure.”  He holds his arm up.  “Go ahead, nurse.”
    I take a breath, grab the cloth, and run it along the hardened contours of his arm.  Where most people are soft, he’s as solid as a rock. 
    “Other one,” I say softly, re-wetting the cloth.  I circle the bed and wash the other one, the one with the tattoo on his forearm. 
    Though I walk through the valley of death, I fear no evil.
    “Were you scared overseas?” I ask candidly as I run the cloth over the words.  Brand opens his eyes. 
    “Of course.”
    Of course.  It was a stupid question.  It just doesn’t seem like he’d be scared of anything. 
    “Being brave doesn’t mean not being afraid, Nora,” Brand tells me, lifting his ocean blue eyes to meet mine. “It means being afraid and doing it anyway.”
    “Doing it ?” I ask.
    Brand shrugs.  “ It can be anything.  Whatever it is that you’re doing, whatever it is that you’re afraid of.”
    I’m doing this.   Right now. 
    Because I want him.  I want him this summer and he’s not getting it.  He’s not making any moves even though I’m here and I’m available, and I want him.  There’s only one way to make him see… I have to be as blunt as a man. 
    I can do this. 
    Because I’m brave.
    I’m brave.
    I’m brave.
    I’m fucking brave.
    I re-wet my cloth and without a word of warning, I pull the corner of his towel back, then pull it entirely off. 
    Brand’s eyes fly open, then fix on my face.  He doesn’t say a word, but I can see him holding his breath.  His flat abdomen isn’t moving. 
    I dip the cloth down his side, over the rippled muscle.  I can feel him through the cloth, his warmth soaking into my fingers. 
    I pass his hip, his delicious, sexy hip.  In my head, I envision it flexing as he straddles me.  I flush, and gulp. 
    I’m brave.
    I’m fucking brave. 
    I take a breath, and my fingers keep moving.  Another breath and the cloth glides downward. 
    Then Brand’s hand covers my own, stopping me. 
    “I think I can get that part.”
    I look down at him, and he’s staring at me in apprehension….because he doesn’t know what I’m doing… or what I want.  I don’t know either.  All I know is….I’m doing it now.  Before it’s too late and he’s out of my life and I never have another chance. 
    “Brand, I have a proposition to make.”
    My words cut the slice through the tension.
    He levels a gaze at me,