Last night, when Peter had said he would check on her in the morning, Emille had thought he'd meant he would call. She hadn't anticipated the knock on her door. Of course she was up and about because it was Thursday. A workday. She'd called in to the office and explained that she'd had an accident. Apparently, Jeff had called some people from work and told them about what happened, because by the time she'd called her boss, Junior Orson, was up to date on everything. Thankfully, her boss agreed that she could work from the comfort of her home via the computer for the rest of the week.
Also, while Emille hadn't forgotten about her car, she'd assumed that Peter would drop it off later in the morning, giving her time to get some work in before she went to see her doctor. Most nights he and Jackson didn't leave the restaurant until well after two o'clock. Jack usually was the one who returned at six to collect the produce, and Peter surfaced at noon to start on any work needing to be done until Jack came in at two in the afternoon. It was like a well greased engine over there, but they put in some long, strange hours.
Peter knocked on the door three times by the time Emille was able to open it. Her hair was still knotted on top of her head. Raccoon eyes and flushed pink skin told the tale that she had not followed the golden rule of good grooming by washing off the night's makeup before going to bed. She didn't care. This was Peter. He'd never really look at her anyway. Peter's kind of woman didn't flush. She glowed. And if she fell asleep with mascara on, she didn't wake up looking like an overweight strawberry skull. She woke up with smoky eyes.
"Yes. I survived the night," she grumpily announced by way of greeting. Who wouldn't be grumpy when someone showed up at their door at seven in the morning looking like Mr. Sunshine? He was even wearing an eye-burning neon yellow t-shirt. And the damn shirt had the audacity to look good on him.
"Mornin'. I brought your car."
Emille took a good look at him and wished she hadn't. He was dressed for a run. He couldn't have had more than six hours of sleep, but here he was… ready to go for a run. Who does that? she wondered silently. "You need a ride?" she asked instead.
Peter shook his head. "No. I'd planned to do six miles this morning anyway. It's only seven back to my place."
It would take him just over a half an hour if he was feeling lazy. "Need some water, or something?" She already knew the answer.
"No. I'll be fine," he answered. He turned to leave, but changed his mind and didn't step away. "How's your ankle doing?"
Emille stuck her foot out and did the wiggle test. "Sore. But I think it's just a sprain."
Concerned, he frowned at her foot. "What's your pain level?"
Emille smiled at that. "You know me, Peter. I'm either in pain, or I'm not." It wasn't that she was tough. Au contraire. When it came to pain, Emille was a total wimp. A pinprick was a ten as far as she was concerned. She might bite her lip and endure in silence, but any kind of pain was always bad pain.
"Did you take any painkillers?" Typical Peter, he maintained a serious expression as he asked about her health.
"Yes. And yes they worked. The next set should kick in in about another minute. Ooh!" Emille stuck a finger into the air. "There we go. Pain gone."
He chuckled at her humor. "That's good to know, but I really would prefer it if you saw a doctor."
It was her time to sober. "Look. About the table…" She couldn't stop the blush that stole into her cheeks at just the memory of the night before. "And everything else I broke. Just send me the bill and I'll pay to have it replaced."
Peter rolled his eyes at her. "Em. It's not like you had a bar fight. It was an accident. It could have happened to anybody."
"But it didn't happen to anybody," she whispered. "It happened to me."
"You're right. It happ-end. End of story." Peter took two steps toward the stairs then seemed to think better of it. He backtracked, and Emille - thinking he'd changed his mind about the water - stepped back from the doorway on the wrong foot. Her ankle buckled beneath her and Peter was there at once, keeping her upright. "I was just going to kiss you goodbye," he explained.
It wasn't strange that he'd come back to do something like that. Some of the habits he'd developed while living in Europe and Latin America had remained. He was very good about kissing his friends on their cheeks, and sometimes on the backs of their hands. Even the guys might merit a kiss on the cheek whenever they hadn't seen each other for a while. She tilted her face expectantly.
And was promptly kissed on the lips.
It lasted less than a second. Just long enough for her to respond by leaning into him. Then he was jogging down her front steps and down the street like a disappearing act in slow motion. Less than a second was all it took for him to kiss her lips. But it was hours before she could decide what to make of the gesture.
Maybe he'd kissed her on the lips because they were close friends and the fall had upset him. It was probably his way of showing he cared. Why else would Peter change up his M.O.? It wasn't like he was interested in her in that way. She wasn't his type, and Emille knew her place better than anyone.
Didn't she pass her reflection in the mirror every time she went into the bathroom for a shower? And didn’t' she catch a glimpse of it during the time it took for her to step out of the shower and attempt to wrap as much of her body as she could into a towel that was made for someone half her size? Peter wouldn't kiss a girl like her with anything but friendship in mind.
With one last slap against the fall of belly that the split in the towel failed to conceal, Emille went about preparing for a trip to the doctor to check out her ankle, followed by a workday at home.