Page 112 of Bombshells
“You are,” Fiona says. “Take a hike, stud. Get her a soda, maybe. You can have her back in a minute.”
“All right.” Sylvie gives me a big smile as I move down the bar and ask Pete for Sylvie’s drink.
“Just a Coke?” Drake asks. “A girl deserves a cocktail after that shitty day.”
“A woman,” Charli argues.
Drake waves a hand in her direction. “I’m not afraid of you anymore. Want a margarita? I’m buying.”
Charli looks conflicted. “Um, sure. Thanks.”
“Drink, Baby Bayer?” my teammate asks.
“No thanks, man.” I bring Sylvie a drink and then introduce myself to her dad. “Mr. Hansen, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He gives me the kind of careful perusal that they probably teach every father of a daughter, and I feel a prickle of uneasiness that might never go away. I’ve never been the kind of guy that women brought home to daddy.
Mr. Hansen clears his throat. He gives me a very stern look. And then he says, “My daughter thinks you don’t love her.”
Well, damn. If this is what it’s like to be respectable, it’s even harder than I thought. “That’s my fault, sir. I’ll make sure she knows. I’ll clear that up tonight.”
He grins. “See that you do. And you’ll need these.” He pulls some folded up papers out of his jacket pocket. “The hospital has some instructions for wound and concussion care. It’s either you or me who’s looking after her tonight.”
“I’ll do it,” I say, taking the papers from his hand.
“Very well. That sofa in her apartment does not look that comfortable.”
“Uh, right. Sir.” My dad-game needs work. “Can I buy you a drink? You must have been sitting at that hospital a long time.”
“Why, yes you can.” He offers me his hand to shake. And I take it.
Thirty-Seven
Very Motivational
SYLVIE
I can’t believe that it’s Anton who’s tucking me into bed. I guess that’s a silver lining to this disaster of a night.
He pulls up the covers, then he sets a glass of water down for me on the bedside table, before walking around to the other side of the bed, and climbing in. “Are you comfortable? Should I sleep on the sofa and give you more space?”
“Oh, hell no. You’re staying right here.” I roll onto my right side—it’s my left that has the big bandage—and reach for him. That’s why I chose this side of the bed.
He catches me and pulls me against his chest. “I was really worried about you,” he whispers. “You know how some injuries just look bad? It looked bad.”
“My dad said the same thing,” I murmur.
“Sylvie?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
I lift my head off the pillow, even though my upper body is starting to ache. “Anton, you’re not just saying that because I bled all over the ice, are you?”
He chuckles. “Definitely saying it because I love you. I’m crazy about you. I hope someday you feel the same, but I’m willing to be patient and find out.”
“Well, I think you should know…” I run a hand down his chest and sigh. “I’ve got it bad for you. Tonight I was lying in the ER hoping that my time in Brooklyn wouldn’t end before you and I had a chance.”
