Whiskey-soaked facets? What the fuck, Mac.
Blissfully unaware of my mortifying inner dialogue, she answers, “I’ve got to run some errands in town before the shops close, but as soon as I’m finished, I’d be happy to.”
That brings up another thing. I video-chatted with Dr. De León and a psychiatrist, who agreed that a mood stabilizer would be a good option. The prescriptions have been ready to pick up since yesterday, but I couldn’t bear asking Ed to come and get me. Not only am I a little afraid of his driving skills, but I’m also still mortified about how I treated him.
“Would it be too much of a pain in the ass if I rode along with you? I’ve gotta pick up something from the pharmacy. I could also use a few more items of clothing, if I’m honest.”
She shrugs. “Sure. As long as you don’t mind a couple of stops along the way. I’m dropping off a casserole with Mrs. Bridgelock because she hasn’t been feeling well. I’ve also got to stop by my accountant’s office to make sure my finances are all in order. Neither of those should take very long.”
“Perfect. Gimme a sec to get ready.”
I grab the coat from the rack and sit on the bed to put it on. I discovered the hard way that trying to balance on the cane while struggling into a coat is dangerous business. I ended up on the floor again last night and was eternally grateful no one was there to witness that spot of ridiculousness.
Kinley’s practiced eyes track the change, and she nods. “Excellent modification.”
“Oh, you mean the fact that I can’t stand and put on a coat at the same time?”
She crosses her eyes, which is funny and way sexier than I’d’ve guessed.
“It’s interesting that you’ve done something to take better care of yourself and are finding a way to diss yourself over it. The need for modifications is not the problem, Mac. Thinking you’re a loser for needing them—that’s the problem. Now, I don’t know what Dr. De León is telling you, but it is highly likely that after a day’s worth of mini-strokes, you’re going to have some differences, some of which might be permanent. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to sing and play again the way you used to, and that’s genuinely scary. These minor physical modifications are hardly anything in comparison. The only way they’ll make your life measurably worse is if your attitude about them is shitty.”
“Ouch. Am I not allowed to mourn losing range of motion? A sense of steadiness on my feet?”
“Of course you’re allowed to mourn. Theyarelosses. What theyaren’tis insurmountable. Don’t add to your grief by shitting on the things that keep you mobile and active. Or do. Stay here and molder in the cabin, for all I care. You’ll be a tragedy, and you know the world loves a tragedy,” she says, tapping her foot at me.
“Ouch again. You’re not letting me get away with anything,” I whine.
“Oh, whatever. You love it when I give you a hard time.”
Kinley’s flirting with me, and I’d bet my bank account she doesn’t even know it. Any other time, I would’ve already made a move, but she’s right. I’ve been feeling uncertain, and a lot of that comes from having to acknowledge and admit that things are different now.
I cock my head at her, grinning broadly. “If I don’t mind you giving me a hard time, does that make me a masochist and you a sadist?”
She slaps her thigh. “Nope, sorry. If I were a sadist and you were a masochist, I wouldn’t give you a hard time at all. I’d be the picture of propriety, respectfully distant. Cool and untouchable.”
I tilt my head back, laughing and groaning a little. “I do like that you’re bossy. Just don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“That’s because I’m bossy about shit I know. I’m happy to keep my mouth shut as long as you promise to be a good little country music star and cooperate.”
Ugh.Why does that turn me on?
“Or what?” I ask, putting my hand on her shoulder.
I do this for balance and not because I noticed that her chest rises and falls dramatically any time we touch. Kinda like it’s doing right now.
Do not imagine how her tits would feel in your hands, Mac.
Hm.
Soft, warm, and perfectly overflowing, I bet. I have to wonder—are her nipples a velvety brown or a soft, dusky, barely-there pink? Maybe something in the middle? Do they taste as delicious as she smells?
Immediate failure out of the gate, Nash. That’s gotta be a record.
She swallows thickly, looking into my eyes. Her plush black lashes feather along her pretty skin, and I get a little lightheaded. Here’s hoping she’s not a mind reader.
“Or I won’t take you to the local coffee shop,” she tosses back, reminding me that I’d challenged her, probably a little too flirtatiously.
“Why would I care about a coffee shop?”
