“What do I do?”
He presses his lips into a line and opens his bag, pulling out a small canister. “I’m going to give her a mild anti-inflammatory and something for the pain. Should help her sleep more deeply, ease the hurt when she wakes.”
I watch as he sprays a fine cooling mist onto the inside of her wrist. She flinches in her sleep but doesn’t wake.
Is one night going to be long enough?
Does she want to be here for a night?
DoIeven want her here for a night?
God, she’s already got me all fucked up, and she’s only been here a little while.
CHAPTER 3
Lo
Okay.
Okay. Ow.
Everything hurts. Like,everythingeverything. My ribs, my skull, my hip, my pride. Especially my pride.
Also… where the hell am I?
I blink up at a ceiling fan turning really slow. Lazy Sunday slow. Slow enough that I can count the rotations of the blades.
I try to sit up and instantly regret being born. There’s a stabbing pain in my ribs, my head spins, and the blanket over me smells of?—
Oh no.
Nope.
Abort.
That smell? Smoked cedar and vanilla bourbon.
That smell is Beckett Calloway.
And he’s everywhere.
It’s not a hint of cologne or some faint memory of a shirt. It’s baked into this room. Into the pillow. Into the blanket tossed over me. Into me.
My dumb, feverish-fogged brain takes one inhale, and immediately, my body begins singing love songs I somehow still know the words to.
Yeah. I remember.
I remember too well.
My thighs clench on instinct, which is a terrible idea. My entire body flares with leftover fire, sharp and fast and hot under my skin.
The exhaustion’s still hanging around, a bad perfume on a borrowed sweater. Awkward, messy, and way too into my business.
And Beck’s scent?
It’s gasoline on a fire.
God. I’m sweating.
