Page 56 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

Before I get there, Zach scoops me up.

“No way. You need to lie down.” He carries me to the sofa and carefully sets me on it, positioning pillows under my head and foot. “Don’t move. I’m getting ice.”

He goes back to the kitchen, stopping only long enough to move his shoes.

“It’s a little late for that,” I say over the sound of the freezer opening.

“Why don’t you have any ice packs in here?” he calls across the room. “Or any food, for that matter?”

“I’ve only been here a little while.”

“It’s been more than two weeks. What have you been eating?”

“Ebelskiver, mostly.” I tip my head back, listening to ice cubes crashing into a bag.

A few minutes later, Zach comes back, sits down, and puts my feet on his lap. He gently presses on my ankle, then moves it back and forth.

“Ouch,” I moan.

“You’ve definitely twisted it pretty bad, if not sprained it.” He presses the ice to my ankle but rests his other hand on my shin. “We should call Dr. Page.”

“He’s still practicing? Isn’t he, like, a million years old?”

“Not old. Experienced.”

“Let’s just do this for a little while.” I tip my head back and close my eyes.

The ice soothes the pain but doesn’t cool the heat generated by Zach’s touch when he rolls the hem of my pjs past my calf, almost to my knee. Zach rolls his thumb up and down my shin bone, massaging me into a happy stupor.

My ankle hurts, and I know I’m headed for more pain when Zach and I are done pretending to be in love. This moment can’t last forever, but I’m determined to enjoy it while I can.

Chapter 22

Zach

Georgia falls asleep with her feet in my lap. Her head falls to the side, and there’s a little bit of drool at the corner of her mouth. If my phone weren’t dead, I’d take a picture so I could tease her later. Even with the drool, though, she’s still beautiful. I’ve always thought that, but she never believed me when I told her she looked pretty. She always accused me of being nice because we were friends.

So I quit telling her. And maybe I forgot how beautiful she is, because I don’t remember ever feeling this breathless looking at her.

Which means it’s time for me to go.

I scoot out from under her feet, then gently set them on the couch. After I rearrange the ice pack so it’s covering the swelling on her ankle, I find a blanket to cover her. When I brush the hair away from her face, Georgia lets out a sigh that makes me want to crawl under the blanket and curl up with her.

And with that thought, it’sreallytime to go.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was ready to propose to another woman, so I’m not sure I can trust these feelings bubbling up for Georgia. What if they’re as misguided as my feelings for Carly? Rooted in trying to fix what’s missing in my life instead of actual love.

Even if I could trust them, Georgia has never given me any hint she feels more than friendship for me. The only way to find out if she thinks of me as more than a friend is to put that friendship on the line. There’s no way I’m doing that without a sign from her.

A big sign. Like Las Vegas hotel neon sign.

She’s too important to me to risk losing everything we have.

I drive home with all those thoughts running through my brain. I tell myself I’m transferring my feelings for Carly to Georgia to keep from facing them. To keep from hurting.

But something about that doesn’t feel right. Because I am hurting from Carly. Every time I think about her and Laker Brad and how long it took me to put the pieces together, my stomach clenches. I have to force back the bile that creeps up my throat. My whole body feels like the time, on a dare from Georgia, I ate three fried bean burritos that had been in my car for a few days, and I spent the next twenty-four hours barfing.

What I can’t figure out is if I want to puke because my heart hurts or because my ego does.

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