And that terrifies me more than any career risk ever could.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit quietly.
“Nobody does. That’s the secret.” Winnie squeezes my arm. “But I’ve seen you at your worst, Tori. After Jason, after all of it. I’ve never seen you light up the way you do when you talk about this guy.”
“I don’t light up.”
“You absolutely light up. Like a dang Christmas tree. Your whole face changes. It’s honestly kind of disgusting.”
I laugh, even though my eyes are suddenly stinging. “I’m scared, Win. What if I mess this up? What if I’m not what he needs? What if Maisie gets attached and then I—”
“What if it works out?” She cuts me off gently. “What if he’s exactly what you need, and you’re exactly what he needs, and that little girl gets someone in her life who actually shows up?”
My throat tightens.
“You’d be good at it, you know,” Winnie adds, softer now. “The mom thing. You’ve always been nurturing; it’s in your DNA.”
That’s the thing about having a best friend.
They see all the best parts of you.
18
MIRACULOUS RECOVERY
Tori
Grayson Reed’s hip injury is a medical marvel.
It flares up whenever I’m on shift and disappears completely when James covers for me—almost like it has access to my Google calendar.
Funny how that works.
This is the third “emergency treatment” he’s needed this week. The first time, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. The second time, I was suspicious. Now I’m just annoyed.
He’s also developed a habit of needing ice baths when I’m restocking the training room—ice baths that apparently require nothing but a pair of very snug black boxer briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. It’s a lot. And he always has “quick questions” that turn into fifteen minutes of him leaning against doorframes in a towel, smiling like he’s waiting for me to notice how charming he is.
I’ve noticed. I’m just not impressed.
“Right here,” he says, pointing vaguely at his hip flexor. “It’s been killing me.”
I palpate the area. No inflammation. No tightness. No strain beyond what any athlete carries. His hip is perfectly fine, and we both know it.
“Feels normal to me.” I step back from the table, frowning. “Ice if it bothers you, but honestly? There’s nothing there.”
“Maybe I just like the attention.” He sits up slowly, watching me. “You’ve got good hands, Wells.”
“It’s my job.”
“Still.” He swings his legs off the table and stands, positioning himself between me and the door now, which I’m sure is just a coincidence, even if it feels a little odd. “We should grab a drink sometime. Celebrate my miraculous recovery.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on.” He takes a step closer. “One drink. What’s the harm?”
“I don’t date players.” I keep my voice flat. Bored. “It’s not personal.”
“Everything’s personal.” Another step. He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and aggressive, like he bathed in it. “I’ve seen the way you look at Bishop.”
