Lie downis probably better.
Definitely where we’re going.
I hear laughter and vaguely realize my brother’s flirting with both of the nurses working on this side of the tent.
Causing a distraction.
Getting phone numbers.
My brother annoys the crap out of me.
“Fletcher,” I repeat as I reach him. “Sit down.”
Bright green eyes land on me. Bright green eyes with dilated pupils. “I’m fine.”
I grab his arm. “Don’t think so.Sit.”
He takes one more step toward me. “Hummingbird,” he mutters.
What?
Whatwhat?
My jaw flaps open, and I half stumble myself.
Hummingbird.
I haven’t been called that in years.
Why is Fletcher Huxley saying Hummingbird?
I shake myself and grip his other arm too.
As much as I can, anyway.
Dude hasthickforearms. “Fletcher.Sit.”
His eyes roll back in his head, but the stubborn ass of a man takes one more step toward me.
Like he thinks he can walk this off.
Or like he thinks I’m going to catch him.
All two hundred and thirty or so pounds of him.
“Fletcher—” I shove into his chest, hoping to force him back into the chair, but it’s too late.
Because Fletcher and his grotesque mustache and all of theweight in his over-muscled arms, neck, and thighs, are collapsing on top of me.
He smells like a summer sunrise hike in a pine forest.
That’s what goes through my head as we both crash to the floor, me twisting to avoid landing on my bad hip, him completely unconscious, the mustache from hell inches from my face.
I grunt under the bulk of him squishing my lungs while the nurses come running.
And his tall, skinny, emo camera guy appears overhead, snapping away. “Oh, this is good. Can you smile a little? Maybe slap his cheek while you’re smiling? This will blow up his socials. He’ll love it.”
It’s official.
