Page 6 of Fastlander Phoenix

Had she created him in her imagination as a response to the pain, or the impact of the car?

Another flashback of the moment her car hit the tree made her wince again. Her heart was hammering.

She’d made it all up. She felt her body, it was okay. The only thing that ached was a burn under some bandages on her left upper arm. She had survived something horrible. She needed to send a thank-you into the universe and accept her brain’s response to something awful. If it made up a story around something traumatic, perhaps it was to protect her. She had majored in psychology in college, and now worked as a therapist. The brain did incredible things in order to protect a body from trauma.

A nurse was in her room now, griping at her for taking off her heart monitor. She was put through the process of checking vitals and removing some of the tubes. Timber complied until the nurse seemed satisfied. The minute she left the room, Timber slipped off the bed, dragging her IV bag, and scurried to the vase of pink roses to find a card. There was none. Dangit!

Were they from Brandon? He’d been texting her again, pissing her off. He’d never gotten her flowers while they were together, but maybe this was the move. She huffed a sigh andcanted her head, studied the flowers. That didn’t seem right. Brandon wasn’t a flowers type of guy.

It took an hour to get her discharge papers because apparently she had to be checked by a doctor and two more nurses, even though she felt perfectly okay.

They gave her a huge stack of paperwork, and a few packets of burn-relief gel. She thanked them and scrambled into her clothes.

Two days. That meant she’d missed a bunch of appointments, and her clients would be worried. Her plants needed to be watered! She needed to figure out where her car was, and if it was salvageable. Her phone was nearly out of charge. Hopefully she had enough battery left to order a ride to her house. She grabbed the pink roses and cradled them in her arm—the unbandaged one, because the burned one was throbbing with pain in rhythm with her heartbeat—and then waved to the nurse at the counter and made her way to the elevator.

Sasha would be working for a while yet, and Timber was ready to put some distance between herself and this place. She didn’t like hospitals much. Sasha was built to be a nurse, but not Timber. She didn’t like the chemical-clean smell in here, and hated the white walls and the way her sneakers squeaked on the sterile tile floors.

Most of all, she hated the pain that was soaked into the walls of hospitals. People had been saved in here, yes, but many had been through awful trauma here. Families had been told heartbreaking news here. Hospitals had always unnerved her.

She hit the button for the elevator, checking behind her to see if anyone would be piling inside with her. The hallway was mostly empty. Impatiently, Timber poked the button three more times, and the elevator dinged with the announcement that it had arrived.

She scrambled in, ignoring the guy standing inside. “What floor,” she murmured to herself, trying to remember if she needed the lobby or the parking garage level.

The guy was just standing there, and hadn’t backed up to give her space. She tossed a glance over at him and froze. It was the vase of pink roses in his hand she noticed first. It was a replica of the one she held.

Her attention darted up to his face, and he looked just as shocked as her as she recognized him.

It was the fire-man.

“You,” she whispered.

The man was tall, very broad in the shoulders, and fit. The curves of his muscles pushed against the thin material of his navy blue T-shirt. He was six feet tall, but his presence made him feel even bigger. He seemed to take up every molecule of space in the elevator. The faint scent of smoke clung to him. His hair was short on the sides, and longer and lighter up top, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors in the sunshine. His jaw was chiseled like some model’s on a billboard, and he had that two-day designer scruff that accentuated his masculine lips. He was intoxicating.

“I know you,” she whispered. “I remember…” she frowned. Remembered what? That he ate fire? He looked perfectly normal now.

“Here,” he said gruffly, shoving the flowers at her.

She flinched as the vase settled against her burned arm. “Um, thank you.”

“I was just making sure you didn’t die.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I didn’t crash into you. You got a flat tire. I just happened to be around.”

The elevator made a grating buzzing sound, and she realized she had moved in front of the doors and was standing in the way of them closing.

“Glad you lived,” the man gritted out, almost angrily. And then he stormed past her, out of the elevator.

“You can take the elevator back down!” she said lamely.

As the doors closed, she could see him turn, and his eyes were hard as glass as he said, “I would rather take the stairs.”

The doors closed, and the elevator started going up. Crap, she had forgotten to choose a floor level. She hit the lobby button, and picked up a couple on the sixth floor before they headed back to the lobby.

Once there, she did a quick search, but the man wasn’t here. Speed-walking, she made her way to the front parking lot and spied him getting into his old, red truck. The bed on the driver’s side was dented and scratched. She had done that, and he had visited her? And brought her flowers? And very clearly didn’t want anything in return.

She felt compelled to thank him though. Obviously he had been the one to bring her to the hospital.

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