Page 87 of Bidding War

But I need that now.

June has never spoken much about her family, so I don’t know if she has much of a nurturing instinct in her. Come to think of it, I don’t know a lot about her background. Every time it gets brought up, she obfuscates.

Well, if she sticks around, I have weeks of talking-only dates ahead of me. Plenty of time to dive into it, I suppose.

Mostly, I just need to see her face. The anticipation is an itch under my skin that can’t be scratched. A craving that never ends until I taste her lips. Knowing she is on her way here, I can’t unwind, I can’t think straight. There’s a weight in my chest that won’t lift until?—"

Someone knocks at my door. I grin, then wince as I hobble my way to it.

45

JUNE

“Oh my god, you look like shit!” bursts out of my mouth.

He laughs, then clutches his middle. “Don’t make me laugh. I’ll tear my stitches. Again.”

I rush into his apartment, taking in none of it. “Stitches? What the hell is going on?”

He gingerly shuts the front door, and it looks like that takes all his energy. He is shuffling. Anderson West does not shuffle. He steps commandingly, he saunters, he strides with grace, but my man does not shuffle. Slowly, he makes his way to his bed, and I’m glued to his side. He is the only thing in my vision at the moment. His face is rough with several days of growth. His skin is sickeningly pale. He even reaches out for my arm when he’s getting into bed. I help him get into it, but my mind is racing.

For fuck’s sake, what the hell happened?

Once he’s under the covers, Anderson sighs carefully, still wincing as he does it. “I need you to not freak out or yell. Can’t take that right now. Promise?”

“Yeah, whatever you need.”

“I got shot.”

“You what!” Okay. I yelled that.

He grimaces at the volume. “You promised?—"

“You were shot? Like, with a gun, that kind of shot?” Me with the genius questions.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Can you pass me the water?”

It’s only then I notice the glass of water on his nightstand. It could have been a snake, ready to bite me, and I wouldn’t have noticed it, not after seeing him hurting. I pass it over. “I need explanations. Now. Why are you home? Why aren’t you in a hospital? How bad is it? And who the fuck shot you?”

He sips his water, then hands it back, so I set it down. “I am home because healing does not happen in hospitals. I don’t care what anyone says. You cannot get a good night's sleep with nurses coming by for vitals every two hours. That’s why I’m not in the hospital.”

“Okay, and the rest?”

“Well, I got shot in the stomach, so it’s not fucking great, I can tell you that.”

“Don’t do that with me, Anderson. Don’t make light of this.” I am trembling right now. Feels like I’m going to lose my mind.

“Sorry. I’ve had a little time to get used to this. It’s new to you. I’ll try to keep that in mind.” He shrugs a little, and even that earns a pain face. “A fragment of the bullet skimmed my stomach and kinda lodged in the middle of a few spots, but the stomach was the worst injury. I’m on liquids for now, so my six-pack might become one of those coveted ten-packs if I’m lucky?—"

“No jokes! This is fucking serious!” I am in tears. I can’t help it.

He takes my hand in his and brushes a kiss on my knuckles. “I’m sorry. It’s just how I deal with this. I’ll do better.”

The words sit in my throat until I let them out. “So … you’re gonna live?”

“I’m going to live. As long as I’m careful of my stitches and let myself heal, and I don’t do much more than healing for the next few weeks, I will live.”

I can finally breathe. “Who was it?”

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