The thing about being temporarily blinded by a breakfast condiment is that your brain, desperate for data, starts overclocking every other input channel. I can hear Billy’s shocked laugh, Jaymee’s “Fucking hell,” and someone behind me making panicked noises.
I stagger back, still scraping at my eyes in a desperate attempt to see, and my shoulder connects with something solid—the mechanical parrot, my brain supplies, right before twenty pounds of animatronic bird crashes onto our table.
The sound is magnificent. Like someone threw a drum kit into a china shop.
I try to back away from the destruction, but the decorative netting along our booth, which I’d found charmingly kitschy five minutes ago, has other plans. My foot tangles in it.
“Wait, let me—” a male voice says from behind me, urgent.
And then the floor tilts.
Oh right. The ship-rocking feature. Because this restaurant commits to its themes with psychotic dedication.
Unfortunately, when you combine angular momentum, compromised balance, and a tangled limb, the result is…not good.
I go down in a way that would make Newton weep—my body obeying gravity while my caught foot insists on staying put.
The crack is distinctive.
“Fuck!”
Pain immediately radiates out from my ankle, sending signals to my brain that can only be described as angry Morse code performed by wasps.
Oh my god.
The human foot contains twenty-six bones. I’m fairly confident I’ve just discovered several new ways to arrange them.
The floor tilts the opposite way, adding insult to actual injury as I slide but my foot doesn’t.
“Don’t move! Your ankle—” the deep voice says. Through my syrup-impaired vision, I can make out a man kneeling beside me.
“Could someone turn off the boat?” I gasp, “This is like being seasick and broken at the same time. Zero stars, would not recommend.”
Apparently, my response to extreme pain is to critique the restaurant’s ambiance.
I manage to wipe enough syrup from my face to squint up at the guy on his knees next to me.
He’s staring at me, a horrified look on his face.
My brain, which has never once in my life had appropriate priorities, chooses this moment to inform me that the man whojust broke my ankle has dark hair, darker eyes, and a jawline sharp enough to qualify as a structural engineering marvel.
Apparently, my gorgeous-guy detector still functions even when I’m in immense pain. Good to know.
Someone has thankfully located the off switch for the rocking boat, leaving only my frantic gasping punctuating the air.
“Oh my god, Archie, are you okay?” Jaymee drops to her knees next to the gorgeous syrup guy.
“Uh…I think my ankle is broken,” I say through clenched teeth. It must be one of the most redundant sentences ever spoken because my ankle is currently puffing up to a size that is definitely not the shape of a healthy ankle.
The pain has made me lightheaded and the syrup fumes aren’t helping.
One of the servers comes over, a phone pressed to his cheek.
“I’ve just called 999, but they’re saying an ambulance will take about three hours to get here,” he informs us.
“I’ll order an Uber to get you to the hospital.” The handsome guy is apparently taking charge of the situation. He’s already pulling out his phone with one hand while somehow managing to take off his suit jacket and fold it under my head with the other.
Which is a good thing because Billy’s started doing his crisis-breathing exercises, which means he’s essentially hyperventilating with good form while Jaymee has turned white.
