“Thank you. I appreciate your support,” I say.
“You’re welcome. It’s just such an amazing story,” she says, her eyes lighting up. I know what’s coming next. She’s going to ask how it ends. “You can’t give me a hint about how it all turns out, can you?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m under a strict NDA.” I nod gravely as if to say it’s such a shame because I’d love nothing more than to have a long chat while I bleed out.
Her face falls for a second, then she says, “My husband thinks Vilarr is going to come back from the grave and vanquish Zhordal.”
Her husband is clearly an idiot. “He’s not the first person to suggest that.” I shift in my chair, trying in vain to move away from the pain in my leg.
The woman leans in closer and lowers her voice. “Can you at least tell me if he’s wrong? He’s wrong, isn’t he?”
“I can’t really tell you anything, except to say you are a very astute woman.”
“I knew it!” She beams.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Davenport really should rest,” Emma says apologetically.
“Oh, right. Sorry,” the woman answers, her shoulders dropping. She looks back at me and shakes her head. “Jeff will never believe I met you. Is there any way you could give me an autograph?”
“Sure,” I say weakly. “Why not?”
She digs around in her purse for a second, then produces a pen and a crumpled-up napkin that I hope hasn’t been used for nose-wiping (or any other type of wiping, for that matter). She holds them out to me, beaming as I lift my right hand to take it, only to realize I’m totally fucked. I can’t sign my name. My hand is going to be useless for a very long time.
How the hell am I going to finish writing the series with one hand?
15
Confessions of Painkiller Pierce
Emma
Well, this is weird. Mr. Snooty Pants has asked me to come in with him while he gets stitches. At the moment, he’s sitting on the exam bed while a nurse cleans his cuts. And even weirder, he seems…almost pleasant. He’s actually smiling at me while she works on his leg—sort of an adorably sweet smile that makes his very kissable dimples pop.
He’s also thanked me four times already for saving his life and for my quick thinking in the waiting area when that ridiculous woman was trying to get a photo with him. I mean, honestly? Who asks someone that when they’re clearly very injured?
There's something so sincere about him right now. He's not the rich, well-put-together, cold man that I met a few days ago. This one is bleary-eyed and a bit vulnerable. From the looks of him, he hasn’t slept in a long while, which I suppose makes sense since he’s on some serious deadline.
His pants are rolled up, he's got bare feet, and he's left his shirt open, but likely because he's just too worn out to realize it and not because he’s trying to show off his hard-earned abs. He reminds me of a castaway on a deserted island. A hot, highly intelligent castaway with a rock-hard body.
Okay, Emma, stop that or you’ll forget he’s a total jerk...
He winces just the slightest and I find myself feeling sorry for him. “You okay?”
“Never better,” he says, even though that is clearly not true.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes with the doctor to get you stitched up,” the nurse says. “You’re going to need an x-ray for that hand as well. I’m pretty sure your thumb is broken, although I can’t imagine how an iguana would have managed that.”
Pierce turns a bit red, then clears his throat. “He was unusually strong, I think. More like the size of a croc than an iguana.”
She stares at him for a moment, opens her mouth, then closes it and leaves.
When we’re alone, he gives me a guilty look that says there’s more to the story than he’s willing to tell. I narrow my eyes, then gesture to his hand. “So, the iguana did that? Really?”
“Umm hmm,” he answers, avoiding eye contact.
“That just seems so hard for me to believe. I’ve lived here most of my life and I’ve never heard of such a thing. You weren't perhaps trying to challenge it for your breakfast?” I ask.
He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible and says, “I may have done, yes.”
