Prologue
The oversized black beast roars, charging directly at my body. I stumble and waste a precious second staring at the small butterfly caught between its teeth as the beast runs into my side headfirst, knocking me to the ground. The pavement eats away at my skin and I slide a short distance, but I don’t notice the pain in my leg until one of the other forest animals yells.
“Oh my God, look at her leg!”
More words are volleyed in the area surrounding where my body lays on the ground, but it’s difficult making out what they say. A persistent wail fills the area, but not one like I expect. This isn’t the ambulance coming to my rescue. No. It’s worse. My head shakes back and forth, and with an unsteady hand, I reach out to silence the alarm on my phone. The ever present 7 a.m. warning it’s time to start the day’s madness.
Madness is the only way to describe a morning when you’re the mother to a two-year-old.
The sound does more than wake me. It also wakes Emma, and I catch her cries from the other room. Without a second thought, I move my legs from the bed and grab the left one as pain rockets through my body. I flop back on the pillow and suck in large deep breath, doing my best to work through the shooting needles sensation in my ankle.
“There, there, little Emma, I’ve got you,” a man’s voice filters down the hallway in between flashes of pain.
I tense, making the leap from pain to terror, but not able to move. It doesn’t last long as realization of the moment comes fast. No one is trying to kidnap my child, but the reality might be almost as bad.
There’s a big bulky, hunky, former Navy SEAL in my apartment.
The same one who hit me with his truck and severely twisted my favorite ankle bone.Yes, it’s perfectly normal to have a favorite bone.Earlier, the truck driver of doom promised to take care of us until someone from my family could arrive, but I secretly hoped he’d been kidding. I didn’t need the man who almost killed me trying to nurse me back to health. What kind of sicko would that make me?
There are not enough pain pills in existence for me to survive having Nate Bellamy in my space.
1
I’ve used crutches one time in my life. Halfway through seventh grade field day I twisted my other ankle on the long jump. Back then I sucked at using the long pieces of wood to make my way through the school halls, and my skills hadn’t improved with the years. Tired after only a few feet of hobbling my way down the apartment hallway, I lean against the wall pretending to inspect the paint job rather than resting my flabby arms. Emma laughs and darts between her doorway and the hallway, her long blonde hair a wild mess flowing behind her head.
“You’re up,” Nate says, as I pass into the open area of the living room. He’s awake and much too bright-eyed for this early in the morning. Plus, when did he get here and who let him in my apartment?
These important questions will need to wait. I give the super-hot guy a silent nod and concentrate on using the crutches to take my stiff leg to the couch without falling on my ass and doing more damage.
He scrambles behind and pulls a pillow from the side, placing it on the coffee table and helping to adjust my ankle and protective boot on top. It’s so nice… and annoying. He hit me with his truck. He doesn’t get to be kind to me now. I’d be pissy to him, but the truth of the matter is I need all the help I can get.
“You want to make sure and keep your foot propped. Did you take a pain pill?” he asks, each question coming quicker than the last and leaving no time for me to answer any of them.
I let the full weight of my leg fall on the pillow and only wince twice with its progress. I can’t see it because the compression boot hides the affected area, but underneath the black plastic, the bottom of my leg is swollen with a blackish purple bruise marring my pale skin. “No, I haven’t yet.”
His face falls, his brown eyes losing luster as they narrow in my direction with accusations etched in their depths. “You want to stay ahead of the pain, Josie.”
“Yes, I know.” I nod. No one wants to walk around in pain—least of all a wimp like me. “But I want to make sure I’m alert to take care of Emma today.”
His forehead pinches together in question. “I’m here to take care of Emma. You’re supposed to relax.”
Emma darts into the hallway quietly and I’m already aware of where she’s going. To flush something down the toilet. “Where is Emma?” He’s been here less than a day and he’s let his guard down already. He won’t make it an afternoon in my apartment before he passes me off to another victim.
Nate blinks, and his eyes search the living room, but Emma’s not here. He smirks and shrugs a shoulder, but worry and fear grow in his expression. I recognize the expression because I so often wear it myself.
“She’s just waiting for breakfast. I’ll get her,” he lies.
“Uh-huh.”
Nate turns on a heel, a toilet flushes further down the hall, and I wince, hoping it was nothing important lost down the drain this time. Since she became obsessed with the toilet about two months ago, I’ve done my best to lock valuables up or keep them on high shelves, but somehow she always finds something to flush. Thankfully it’s a large building with the pipes to match. Usually.
Nate’s gone longer than I would like and worry builds in my stomach. I still haven’t figured out who let him in my apartment. With slow but sure movements I inch my way off the couch. I’ve never been great at sitting still for long periods. Halfway to the hallway a loud pop and plume of smoke whips out from the small galley kitchen in the apartment.
“Nate?” I call, trying not to panic even as I move my crutches quicker, risking certain death when I fall on my face. I’m only five-foot-five but my nose would not appreciate being squished. “What’s going on in the kitchen?”
“Don’t worry. I making everyone breakfast,” he yells, somewhere down the hallway, and whatever he says afterward is covered by Emma’s laughter. He’s cooking something and chasing my child through the apartment? Those two things do not mesh.
He said not to worry, but I can’t help my growing concern. The ends of my crutches catch on the carpet when I don’t lift them up high enough, but I manage to make it to the kitchen without falling on my face.
