Page 6

We drive past pastures dotted with lazy cattle and white-fenced ranches. My pain fades in and out, but every time I think it’s getting better, we hit a pothole and I have to bite my tongue to keep from swearing.

“By the way,” I say, “that little stick on the left side of your steering wheel? It’s called a turn signal.”

She sniffs. “You want to walk the rest of the way to Dr. Lawson’s office, just say so.”

“I’m good,” I grumble.

The town comes up fast. Silver Spoon Falls is all wide streets and manicured trees, the kind of place that looks staged for a magazine spread. Main Street is lined with shops and bakeries, each one cuter than the last. People wave at us as we drive by. The Carringtons have lived here for generations, and we own roughly a third of the property in town.

We turn onto Main, and I see her, walking past the bakery like she owns the goddamn sidewalk. Blonde hair in wild, sunlit waves, ass poured into teal yoga pants that should be illegal, and a T-shirt so tight it might as well be painted on. She moves like she’s got zero fucks to give. I nearly choke on my fucking tongue.

My cock is instantly at full alert, like it senses actual hope for once in its tragic, lonely existence.

I’m still staring when Maggie waves out the window, grinning like a lunatic. The woman flashes a smile back, bright enough to melt steel. That’s when it hits me. My sister actually knows her.

Fucking hell. Once I get my back fixed and can actually walk without wincing, I plan to find out who this stunning woman is.

Maggie turns onto Main, slinging the Land Rover into a parallel spot in front of the chiropractor’s office with all the grace of a demolition derby driver. I hiss at the g-force, then pretend I didn’t.

She kills the engine and looks over at me. For a second, her expression softens. “You gonna make it?”

“Not if you keep hitting every pothole in the state,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it. My mind is too preoccupied with the goddess we just passed on the road.

My sister unbuckles her seatbelt and climbs out. Before I can protest, she comes around and opens my door.

“Ready, old man?” she teases.

I groan, swing my legs out, and nearly pass out. She offers a hand, which I ignore for about two seconds before caving and letting her help keep me upright.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.

She pats my shoulder. “You have no idea.”

We limp toward the entrance together, me hobbling, her practically bouncing. The afternoon air is sharp, the sunlight too bright, and I feel every bit my age and then some.

At the door, she pauses, her hand on the small of my back—delicate, supportive, just for a second. “We’ll get you patched up,” she says. “Promise.”

I grunt, then glance sideways at her. “God, I hope so.”

She laughs, and for a moment, it doesn’t hurt to stand up straight.

The waiting room is cool and smells like lavender and antiseptic. Maggie checks me in with the receptionist, then parks me in a plush armchair that is both incredibly soft and somehow also makes my back feel worse.

I try not to fidget. She sits across from me, scrolling on her phone, her face a mix of concern and amusement.

The receptionist calls my name, and I grunt to my feet, bracing for whatever fresh hell awaits in the exam room.

As I shuffle away, I hear her say, soft and sincere, “Good luck.”

The exam room is designed to soothe, but it only amplifies my dread. There’s spa music piped through invisible speakers, a fake waterfall in the corner that’s way too loud, and a wall-sized poster of a grinning skeleton having the time of its life. I sit on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling under me, and do my best to look like a guy who isn’t already plotting his escape.

Dr. Lawson enters exactly on time. He’s one of those guys who could be any age between thirty and sixty; everything about him is generically “doctorish.” He’s wearing a perfectly pressed button-down tucked into jeans, and his handshake is just a smidge too enthusiastic.

He glances at his tablet, then at me. “Tanner Carrington. How’s the pain today?”

“Eleven out of ten. Would not recommend to a friend,” I deadpan.

He grins, like he’s heard it all before. “Well, let’s see what we’re working with.”