“I’ll go get the truck,” he calls over his shoulder. “Text Stella you’re good and I’ll meet you at the door.”
I watch him go, then glance down at my phone again. Still blank. Still quiet.
This is fine. I’m fine. I’m always fine.
I haven’t seen Bennett in years and he’s just gonna drive me to his brother’s house like we’re still best friends. With Trish, there’d be an ulterior motive, but Bennett’s good people. Maybe that’s the difference between a small town and the big city.
Or maybe it’s the difference between having people around you who actually care.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nash
I open the door to find Bennett on the porch, hands shoved into his back pockets, baseball cap on backwards, shoulders hunched like a kid about to confess to breaking a window. “Don’t hate me.”
“Boy, with that as your opener, I feel real great about what’s coming.”
With a sheepish dip of his chin, my brother steps aside.
And there she is.
Lucy Calder. On crutches. Standing stiffly, like she’d rather vanish into the porch railing than meet my eyes. But then she does, and that rollercoaster-drop sensation hits low and hard. Her cheeks are flushed. Blonde hair twisted into a messy bun. Gym clothes clinging like she barely made it through the workout alive.
Hold on now?—
Workout?
She lifts a hand in a weak wave. “I think it’s kind of weird that I’m at your house too,” she mutters.
My gaze flicks from Bennett to Lucy and back again. “Why do I see sweat and Spandex?”
“Lucy was at the gym trying to rehab her ankle using a YouTube video,” Bennett says, like this is a perfectly normal, totally sane idea.
I blink. My brain misfires. I press a hand to my forehead and exhale, slow and sharp.
“That injury is four days old and you’re at the gym? Of all the reckless, idiotic…”
I catch the way Lucy shrinks back before lifting her chin with a flare of determined pride. Just a flicker of weakness before she covered it. But enough. I pivot and lock my glare on Bennett instead.
“You expect me to be okay with this? With her being this stubborn and stupid?—”
“Before you dig yourself a big ole hole of judgment you can’t climb out of,” he interrupts, “I literally ran into her and knocked her over. I just want to make sure she’s okay like any decent human would. And since I know a guy…” My brother raises his brows. “Maybe stop with the lectures and open the damn door?”
An entire sermon on the possibility of permanently damaging that ankle marches around my brain, but I press my lips together and step aside, jaw tight, as Lucy crutches past.
The scent hits me first—coconut and sweat andsomething sun-warmed. It’s somehow both annoying and unmistakably pleasant. She moves through my space with careful, deliberate steps, like she’s not entirely sure she should be here.
And I feel the same.
Having her in my house is disorienting. In the ER, everything has rules. Hierarchy. Purpose. Here, it’s quieter. Personal.
Too personal.
Not only is she a patient, but she’s a patient I can’t seem to get out of my head.
And now she’s in my living room.
“Sit,” I say, pointing more gently than I feel. Lucy obeys, lowering herself slowly. I kneel beside her to remove the boot and immediately regret that choice.
