Page 9 of Lace 'em Up

Four

Rory

“He’s dead,” Jean-Michel says, hovering near the bed, face a mask of fury.

There’s something extremely not fun about having your boss at your bedside while you convalesce, but it bypasses uncomfortable and turns into worry when your boss is a man like Jean-Michel Dubois.

Jean-Michel is the owner of the NHL team that Kingston and Rome—standing behind him, both nodding their agreement, their expressions filled with rage that sends ice collecting on my vertebrae—play for, along with the winery that stretches over the hills in the distance that I work at.

Jean-Michel is smart and ruthless and powerful—an actual billionaire—and…he has a protective streak a mile wide.

Something that’s going around this room in spades, considering that Chrissy looks ready to go to battle on my behalf, and the pair of hockey players next to her are prepared to put their fighting skills to work. Even Zeus—the corgi pup that King adopted a few weeks back—appears ready to take up a tiny sword and join in.

The only one who’s calm is the doctor that Jean-Michel called in.

She carefully shooed everyone out while she took photographs of my injuries and then doctored my feet which, unfortunately, fared the worst of all my injuries, my heels long gone in my sprint from the winery. The soles are cut—quite deeply in places—and filled with thorns and dirt and rocks. I hadn’t even felt them, not after…

Be brave and kind.

I exhale carefully, my father’s voice in my head.

Kind isn’t super applicable right now—aside from being nice to the people in front of me (and perhaps trying not to let King push my buttons).

But brave is.

I’ll be okay.

I’ve been through…

Enough to know that I’ll get through this too.

Even if my freshly cleaned up and glued back together in a few places feet are starting to ache, the pain killer the doctor gave me wearing off…

So. Much. Fun.

I grind my teeth together, wince against the pain that shoots through my bruised jaw, hating that it causes all of the people in the room to look newly ready to commit murder.

Though, still not Dr. Halston.

She just lightly touches my shoulder and places a basket of items on the nightstand. “Put this”—she holds up a glass container, unscrews the top and shows me the same balm she smeared over the bruises on my face and throat and ribs—“on once more tonight and then twice a day until you feel better. There should be plenty of this”—she holds up a couple of rolls of the wrap she used to bind my torso so I can breathe with only a minimal amount of pain—“for you to rewrap each time, but if you run out, just let Mr. Dubois know and I’ll drop some by.” She holds up a bottle. “Antibiotics. Finish the full course.” Another. “For your pain. Don’t be a hero,” she murmurs, probably seeing my face.

And my intention to skip the heavy narcotics and use something less scary than a substance that’ll land me on Criminal Minds.

King takes a step forward. “I’ll make sure she takes it.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

She gives me a knowing look then pushes upright. “My card is in there as well. Call me if you need anything, or if you feel worse.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, and genuinely mean it. I can’t imagine having to go to the hospital, having to deal with cold, antiseptic walls and a ton of strangers and?—

Well, this is better.

“I’ll check in with you in a couple of days.” A nod toward my feet. “Stay off those for at least the next twenty-four hours.”

“My dogs,” I whisper. I made arrangements with my network of fosters for the wedding, for our honeymoon, arrangements that I’ll keep. But I’ll need to check on them, make sure they’re safe, that Phillip didn’t?—

“I’ve got it.”

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