Page 34 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

“Can I talk to you?” Josh asked from beside me, catching me by surprise as I was in the midst of going over some intel on the screen that had come in overnight.

“Of course, what’s up? Is it the team?”

“No, August.”

Fear gripped me. “What’s wrong?” I had a million scenarios clamoring for superiority—he needed another op; he was dying; he was?—

“He needs a shower.”

I blinked at Josh. “He needs a what now?”

Josh shrugged. “A shower.”

“Okay, and…”

“Doc Jen got a face full of protein drink, and Dr. Simmons backed out of August’s room after he was threatened with physical violence.”

“But he’s weak as a kitten.”

Josh huffed. “Try telling that to the wall with a food tray embedded in it.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Anyway, the rest of the team is out, and you’re the only one who…” He waved a hand at me.

“Who what?”

He waggled his hand. “The only one not out on a job, who can duck fast enough when a tray is heading your way?”

I rolled my eyes at that. “Bum knee, remember?” I reminded him, but he scrunched his nose, then thrust something at me.

“Cover for the bandages, and there are waterproof dressings in August’s bathroom for him.”

“But—”

“So, you’ll handle it?”

“I guess so, I?—”

“Cool,” he said, then backed away. “And if anything happens to you, I’ll make sure it’s a huge funeral.” Then, he jogged around the corner, and I was left clutching plastic wrap and knowing my morning wasn’t going to be about coffee, muffins, and intelligence-gathering, but about getting one pissed-as-hell SEAL into a shower.

I headed to my room first, changing out of combats and into loose sweats and a tee, then headed out, only stopping to pick up a deck of cards with some nebulous idea that I could con him into letting me help him. Poker was my thing.

I knocked, but didn’t wait for a polite anything from inside, before strolling in as if I was supposed to be there.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Surely, the Geneva convention stops torture?”

“I’m reading.”

“Exactly.”

He was in bed, and it was clear he was less than pleased with his current situation. I couldn’t blame him; being stuck in a hospital room wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time. I pointed at the dent in the wall, traced the shape of it.

“Tray frisbee, eh?”

I saw a brief flash of shame, and then, he stiffened and ignored me, so I decided to shake things up a bit.

“Poker,” I announced, then pulled his medical table over him and climbed up to sit cross-legged on his bed, awkward with my bandaged knee, nudging his leg until he shifted, wincing with each wriggle. I was done with him sitting there in misery, and if a shower was what he wanted, and if being on his own was what he wanted, then we’d play for that.

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