Page 23 of Sugar Coated

And the smile on his face, though it was more like a smirk, affected my body in ways it never did before.

“A little butterfly told me you wanted to talk to me,” he went on. “Course, that little butterfly was you, but—” I didn’t doubt he could go on and on—being in a coma, he’d probably missed hearing himself constantly talk—but I didn’t let him.

No, I shut him up by sprinting over to him, throwing my arms around his neck, and hugging him in a way no niece should ever hug their uncle.

But again, he wasn’t my real uncle. He was so much more.

“Oof.” The sound he made when I collided with him, combined with the way he grimaced into the embrace reminded me that he wasn’t fully healed yet, and I pulled myself off him the moment after that, instantly feeling bad.

“I’m sorry,” I quickly said. “I didn’t mean to—”

Kieran placed a hand over his stomach, where he’d been shot, but the warm expression he gave me after that told me he wouldn’t hold it against me. “Don’t apologize. In fact, why don’t you throw yourself at me again, hmm? Pain aside, I could get used to it.”

Normally, a comment like that would’ve annoyed me, but how could I be irritated at the man who’d saved my life? Mmm. Guessed the same thing could’ve been said about my annoyance toward Mike, but whatever. This wasn’t about Mike.

“Are you even supposed to walk up the stairs? Come on, sit down.” Before he could respond, I took him by the hand and led him to my bed, where I forced him to sit down. I couldn’t help but note how stiffly he moved.

“Believe it or not, I’m not completely incompetent. I can walk up stairs. I don’t need everyone fawning over me like I’m some miracle or something—” Kieran paused, then shot a handsome smile my way. “—unless you want to fawn over me. I’m totally okay with you being my maid while I heal up.”

I sat beside him, dangerously close. “Maybe if you ask me nicely.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Damn. If I knew I’d get this treatment from you after saving your life, I would’ve gotten shot a long time ago.” Ignoring the fact that he was still in pain, he must’ve been feeling better; the jokes were back.

God, how I missed those ill-timed jokes and sarcastic comments nobody but him thought were funny.

“Shut up,” I whispered. “For real, how are you?”

“I’ve been better,” he said, reminding me of what I told him when I’d first escaped my kidnapping and he’d visited me in the hospital with my dad and Tessa. “Definitely had better days, but I’m home now, so I can’t really complain too much.” This time, when he paused, there was an added weight to it, thanks to what he said next: “It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“I know. You could’ve died.” It hurt to even suggest it.

He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “No. You could’ve been hurt.”

A lump formed in my throat, which made it difficult to say, “I think you dying is worse than me getting hurt.”

“I beg to differ.” The smile he gave me after that was different than the rest, more serious, and it told me he was one hundred and ten percent certain that he’d rather die than see me get hurt—which was just ridiculous, but at the same time, kind of sweet.

Ridiculous, sweet, and stupid, because where would I be without him?

Instead of arguing with him like I would’ve done in the past, I simply said, “Thank you.”Thank you for saving me, thank you for always being right there when I need you… thank you for everything.

“You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t do it for your thanks.”

I leaned against him, resting my cheek on his shoulder. “I know, but I still want to say it.”

“Well, in that case, you’re welcome.” He angled his head so he could rest it on top of mine, and we sat there for a few moments, neither of us saying a word more, his hand still holding onto mine, warm and confident in its grip.

But he wouldn’t be Kieran if he didn’t say something totally inappropriate, something that ruined the sweet, tender moment between us.

“Am I the uncle of the year, or what?”

I lifted my cheek off his shoulder and glared at him, and the moment I met those dark eyes, I found him amused at his own deadpanned statement. “If you’re my uncle,” I murmured, “I don’t think you should be sitting on my bed or holding my hand.”

His hand squeezed mine. “You’re right, on both counts, which begs the question… if I’m not your uncle, what am I to you?”

What was he to me? I was struck by the simplicity of the question, not to mention how bluntly he asked it, almost as if he was waiting and ready to speak it. It really should’ve been an easy question to answer, and yet all of the things I could’ve said got caught in the back of my throat.

“I…” It felt like pulling teeth, like I wasn’t quite ready to have this intense of a conversation yet with him. “Can I get back to you on that?”

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