Page 114 of Lucky Shot

It’s luxurious and decadent, and if I hadn’t just spent four days in a horribly uncomfortable hospital bed, I’d force myself to get out of it promptly.

But I have and so I allow myself the grace to relax for a few more minutes while the nausea abates and the pain settles from moving too quickly.

Even so, this is all wrong. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t want to be here.

I need to tell him. To ask him to take me back home.

But it’s when I swing my legs over the side of the bed and try to stand up that I know there isn’t an ounce of fight that I can muster. I’m so light-headed that I have to grab onto something to steady myself as my vision turns black and a streak of pain shoots up my side.

I might yelp. I don’t really know. All I do know is that when I open my eyes, I see the dresser to the side of me loaded with bags and supplies from stores I don’t shop at. Victoria’s Secret, Sephora, Nordstroms, Alo, Lululemon. Bags much like the ones that arrived at the hospital with all new clothes, pajamas, undergarments, skincare, and toiletries.

This is ridiculous. I don’t need all of this.

I care dammit. I care about you whether you like it or not so stop apologizing and thinking you aren’t worth it or deserve it or whatever the hell is going through your head because you do. You just fucking do.

Weren’t those the words that were on repeat in my head through each and every one of my dreams?

Aren’t those still the ones I can’t forget now as I sit in this castle in the sky and wonder why they make me feel so damn good?

My head dizzies.

Or maybe I’m just delusional.

The one thing I know for sure is that I need my pain meds and I have no idea where they are. . . .

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Hardy

Was that a yelp?

Does she need help?

I sit in my great room and contemplate whether I should go and see. She’s fine. I know she is because I’ve checked on her every thirty minutes for the past six hours. I made sure her chest was rising and falling because yes, the image of her on the floor still plays on a nonstop loop in my head.

Isn’t that part of the reason I brought her here? So that I knew she’d be okay?

I strain to hear if there’s any more movement down the hall. The urge is real to go check on her yet again—just in case—but my focus is greeted with the click open of her bedroom door.

I stay where I am. From the fight she put up with me just trying to carry her groggy arse up here, I’m completely aware the woman doesn’t want anyone to know she needs anything—help, coddling, anything.

Bloody hell.

It’s my first thought, my only thought, as she shuffles down my hallway toward where I’m seated.

She’s gorgeous. Bedhead. Pillow creases in her cheeks, and zero care that she has either. Her face is still a tad pale, but pale still beats out the sallow tinge it had.

Even ill, she’s stunningly sexy in a way I’ve never defined sexy before, and I’m not exactly sure what to do with that knowledge or how to suppress the pressure mounting in my chest. Because while I haven’t shied away from dating the same woman for an extended period, I have steered clear of the emotions that come with it. Emotions that I imagine cause that kind of pressure and ache in one’s chest.

And yet . . . here I am with just that.

She looks around her as she walks. There’s an awareness to her that’s mixed with a slight sense of awe as she takes in my place. Appreciative but with a complete lack of reverence like this material shit doesn’t matter to her.

Should I have expected anything different? No.

But this is what I live in every day—the opulence, the extravagance. I should have considered what it all might look like through her eyes and I didn’t. I should have wondered if it would make her look at me differently when she’s already fighting me tooth and nail.

My thoughts dissipate when she looks up, meets my eyes, and offers me a sheepish, sleepy smile with zero vanity whatsoever.