Page 41 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

“Fuck’s sake,” I muttered, angry I was even having to sit around like an idiot. I could help Shadow Team, work their comm or something, but no, my job was to heal, rest, and most important, to keep an eye on August.

I wasn’t sure what Ethan thought he was going to do given August’s pain and inability to walk far—even action heroes had limits—but still, according to my last talk with Ethan, that was now my job.

I headed to the kitchen, stole two cupcakes frosted brightly with red and green, and scurried out before anyone saw me, despite the fact there were cameras everywhere, so someone watching would know.

Whoever watched this?

Someone at Sanctuary, I assumed? Or maybe Shadow Team had taken over security here?

I took the stairs, then headed straight for August’s room, knocking, and going in before I could get my usual grumpy “What!” Pleased there was no sign of Doc, which meant it was just him and me. I took the cakes into the kitchen and started the coffee, then sauntered back in. He was out of bed now, sitting in a chair, looking more like he was going to survive this, grumpy ass, and all, but his expression was twisted today, and he was tense and frustrated.

“God, I need to be out there,” August snapped, his gaze fixed past me and on some distant point beyond the room’s walls. “Chasing down Amos, not stuck in this damn bed.”

I understood his restlessness, the desire to be doing something, anything other than lying in a hospital bed. God, that was me—I wanted to be doing something. So, what did I say to help? “I know you want to be out there; I get it,” I said, trying to offer some sort of comfort.

August turned his head to snarl at me—angry and frustrated. “Every day I’m here, Amos is out there, getting further away. I should be leading the charge, not lying here useless. Fuck your nice shit because it doesn’t fucking help.”

His words were sharp, but I knew they were born out of frustration and a sense of responsibility, not malice. “You’re not useless, August,” I countered. “What you did, the information you gathered on the trafficking, the drugs, and weapons, it’s invaluable. I’m sure Shadow Team is making progress because of you.”

He scoffed, turning his head away. “‘Progress’? They’re running in circles with nothing to show for it. They don’t know him like I do, and it doesn’t matter what I tell them, none of it leads to him. Fuck!” He grimaced and cursed again, and I didn’t know what to do.

So, I left.

But only to find something to distract us. I dragged in another chair, then decided we’d need a small table. He stared at me as I pulled things around and, with a bit of effort, brought in a table along with a board game this time, not cards—Sorry!.

“Army versus Navy,” I said as I set up the board.

August stared at the game grumpily. “I’m not a kid.”

“Tell me you didn’t just say that?” I demanded, a fist over my heart.

He stared at me, his lips thin, then rolled his eyes at my dramatics. “Guess it beats listening to your fucking monotone reading.” He was still grumpy, but I wasn’t stopping with my cheer-August-the-fuck-up offensive.

I offered him a choice of colors, two each, holding the pieces out to him, and after a moment of pretending not to care he took red and yellow, which left me blue and green.

“I haven’t played this since I was a kid,” I admitted, picking up a game piece. “My mom has this really old version, and we used to play it on a Sunday.”

“Shuffle the damn cards, Army.”

As we played, the atmosphere lightened a little—not too much, but enough that, despite everything, it felt good to just sit and play a simple board game. I even pulled out some of the healthy snacks I’d rooted from the fridge for me to munch. August was on a different kind of diet, which he described as mushy shit, and only grumbled a little when I reminded him he’d been shot in the gut. He did nibble on a cupcake but that was all.

When I was taking my turn, counting around the board, August took to staring out of the window, lost in thought, the card he’d picked up still in his hand. I’d spent a long time staring at him flat in bed, pale, ill, hurting, and feeling all protective, but now I got to check him out properly.

His appearance told a story of its own. He was compact, but every inch of him was defined by lean, efficient muscle, due to the rigorous training and demanding lifestyle of a Navy SEAL. His body was marked with scars, each one proof of a life spent in the service of his country, or at the hands of the cartel he’d infiltrated, I guess.

I noticed he didn’t have the normal SEAL tattoo, no trident, but there was a ring of thorns around his right arm, bold and stark against his skin. He was exactly the type of hardass I was attracted to, someone who wouldn’t hold back, who’d meet me head-on and challenge me.

I even found the grumpy parts interesting.

I was attracted to him, and it unsettled me. After all, he was someone I’d come to aid in a time of need, and jeez, my feelings were out of place, even freaking inappropriate given the circumstances.

Yesterday, I’d sat and watched him stare at the ocean, trying to rationalize the attraction to the intensity of combat and life-threatening shit, and nothing to do with seeing the raw and real parts of him. It had to be the bond formed through shared adversity, the kind of connection that often develops in high-stress environments, that was all.

So why did I want to hug him when I saw sides of August I bet most people hadn’t. I’d seen his resilience, his, vulnerability in the face of pain, his rarer-than-unicorn-shit smiles, and his terror of not getting the job done. I wanted to know more, but it was easy to feel drawn to someone when you saw them in such a raw, unguarded state.

That had to be it.

But, as the days passed, I knew the truth—there was a genuine attraction to August the person, not just August the SEAL, and I didn’t know what to do with the revelation, but whatever these feelings were, they could wait.

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