I swallowed my fear and stepped into her room, dropping my bag at the foot of her bed. Killian followed, looming just over my shoulder. I might have had a couple of inches on his six-foot-two frame, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the athletic Brit could wipe the floor with me if he so chose.
“I did, and I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am. It’s no excuse, but I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I took the turn too fast.”
“To be fair,” Leighton said, spinning to face her sister. “You weren’t watching where you were going either.”
Nellie’s mouth dropped open. “Yes, I was.”
“Was not. You were too busy showing off for your coworker.”
“I resent that,” she protested. “I wasgloating. That ponytailed weasel isn’t worth showing off for.”
Leighton gestured to Nellie’s right foot. Her running shoe and sock had been replaced with a tightly wound bandage. Barbie-pink toenails peeked out of the wrap. “Was it worth the fractured foot?”
Nellie huffed a heavy sigh. She was cute when she was annoyed.Who am I kidding?She was fucking gorgeous twenty-four seven.
And because I had never been good at keeping my big Italian mouth closed during awkward silences, I gestured to her swollen foot and said, “That looks bad.”
Nellie twisted her lips. “Well, it feels worse.”
“Wait, why do you look familiar?” Leighton asked, eyes bouncing between her sister and me. “Do you two know each other?”
“Austin Amato.” I held my hand out to her, white fur-lined glove and all. “I’m—”
“My neighbor,” Nellie finished.
She and Leighton exchanged a look, one that said so much without either of them saying a word at all. It was a technique I was all too familiar with. As the younger brother of three sisters, I had been the subject of many secret, silent discussions during my youth.
“Ohhh,” Leighton drawled, understanding dawning on her face. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or frightened that she had told her sister about me. “Austin.I love your gloves.”
“Er, thanks.”
“You didn’t have to come to the hospital,” Nellie said, evening her tone. “I know it was an accident.”
I rolled the hat and beard over in my hands. “I was already on my way here when . . .”
I gestured toward her elevated ankle.
“I visit the children’s wing every other Thursday and play the hospital’s Santa during the holidays. Hence the bag of toys.”
Her expression softened when her eyes landed on the oversized bag by my feet. “There are toys in there right now?”
“There are.”
Her lips tipped up to one side. “Well, damn. That’s not fair.”
“What?”
“I can’t be mad at a guy delivering presents to kids with cancer.”
I choked back a laugh. There was nothing funny about kids with cancer or other debilitating illnesses, but that didn’t make our situation any less . . . amusing? Humiliating? Some strange combination of the two?
Story of my life.
“I do need to get to Storytime with Santa—”
She snorted. “Of course you do.”
“But I wanted to make sure you were okay first.”
