Page 113 of Bombshells
“Let’s make that chance,” he says, his feet tangling with mine. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out what you mean to me.”
“Well, Bryce was in the way there for a while,” I admit. “He was my stumbling block.”
“Yeah, but I said he was my stumbling block, too. And he wasn’t. Not really. It was just me and my own fool head.”
“I like your fool head. A lot,” I say as a yawn overtakes me.
“Oh, baby. Let’s sleep,” he says, rubbing my back. “You need the rest to heal.”
I lean against him and take a sleepy sniff of his clean, masculine scent. “We never just sleep.”
“Tonight we do,” he says firmly.
And he must be right. Because I drift off very quickly.
* * *
In the middle of the night, though, I try to roll over onto my other side, and the jab of pain I receive from my wound wakes me up immediately.
My eyes fly open in the dark. My first reaction is, oh shit. But after a moment, the pain recedes to a manageable level. It stings, but I’ll live.
And it’s nice to find that Anton is sleeping beside me, his face peaceful, his blond eyelashes sweeping down to touch his cheekbones. He’s so gorgeous that it almost hurts me to look at him.
I persist, though, and when those lashes flutter open, I realize I’ve been staring at him like Edward in Twilight. “Sorry,” I whisper in the dark.
He closes his eyes, but then opens them again a moment later. Then he pushes himself into a sitting position against the headboard, like some kind of sexy phoenix rising from the ashes of the bedclothes. Moonlight bounces off his carved chest, and outlines the peaks and valleys of his golden hair that’s sticking up in every direction.
“You okay?” he asks sleepily.
“I’m fine. The stitches sting a little bit. But it’s really not a big deal. Can we just forget about that stupid middle-of-the-night concussion protocol? They’ll quiz me in the morning, no matter what you do.”
He shakes his head, and anyone else would argue with me. But not Anton. “You sound fine to me. And the truth is that I’m not that good at following directions. But if you’re awake, I’d like to be, too. Wherever you are, that’s where I’d like to be.” He takes my hand in his and caresses it sweetly. “I’m really damn sorry that it took a blade in your face to get me to say that. But it’s true.”
Well, now I’m really awake. I sit up and lean against the headboard, too. The clock says two thirty, and we should both be sleeping right now. But I love this silent moment too much to try. “You know what hurts?”
“What?” he asks, sounding worried.
“The fact that I didn’t get to finish my game.”
“Oh, honey.” Carefully, he eases an arm around me, and I tuck my chin against his muscular chest. “I bet that does hurt. I sure enjoyed watching that game—right up until the moment everything went bad. I bet your dad did, too.”
“Yeah. He said the same thing a dozen times. I’ll try not to whine about it too much, but it stings worse than the stitches.”
“I know it. You earned that victory. What a game.” He smiles for me in the dark, and that means everything.
In fact, it’s making me into an emotional fool. “I also wish my mother could have seen me play.”
“You must think about her all the time.”
“I do. I wish I could introduce you to her. She would like you. To be fair, though, she liked everyone.”
He laughs good-naturedly.
“But she would have met you, and in like ten minutes she would have been able to see all the good in you. I know I’m partial, but she was special. At her funeral, they had to set up an overflow room in the church basement with a video of the service. And even that overflow room overflowed.”
He strokes my hair with loving fingers. “I sure am sorry I never got the chance to meet her. Do you have a picture?”
For a moment I almost say, I’ll show you in the morning. But we’re both awake, and one of the things I love about Anton is the way he lives in the moment. It doesn’t matter if it’s two thirty. His eyes are bright and warm.
