Page 30 of Miles

12

Savannah

I couldn’t stop blushingas Martina and Ainsley bustled around, drying and helping me dress.

“I can do this myself,” I reminded them more than once, though we all knew that wasn’t true. I was helpless—and, thanks to my swim, both of my casts were soaked through and heavier than ever.

“They’re useless now,” Ainsley mourned, shaking her head. “But all is well. You wouldn’t be needing them for long.”

I looked up at her in time to see Martina’s sharp look.

It was Ainsley’s turn to blush. She turned away.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what I’m talking about. You know me. I prattle on and on without thinking.”

That was a load of bull, and I knew it.

Martina glared at the back of her head.

“Sure,” I mumbled, trying like hell to work myself into a dry dress. My hair hung in snarls down my back, which Martina tried to work out. “It’s okay. I can handle a hairbrush,” I assured her as she pulled at a particularly tough spot hard enough to make me wince in pain.

Once I was dressed again, they left me on my own.

I settled against the pillows and cursed myself for being so stupid. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, wheeling myself out while nobody was watching me and I could get to the beach unnoticed. Wheeling myself with one good arm, using my good leg to steer when necessary, dragging myself across the sand. I had been so sure they were going to lead whoever had come looking for me straight to the bed in which I was waiting.

I was wrong about them. Wrong about so many things.

Like Miles. I was very wrong about him. I should’ve known he was too kind, too protective to send me back to my old life.

I’d mistaken his intensity for the possessiveness I had struggled under for so long. He deserved more credit than that.

I closed my eyes when the memory of him carrying me to my room teased the corners of my mind. It wasn’t right for my heart to pick up speed when I recalled his unyielding chest, his bulging arms. They’d held me so close, but there wasn’t a hint of roughness in them. He was strong enough to keep me safe, even if he was protecting me from myself. I had nothing to fear.

For once, there was nothing to fear. I didn’t know what to think about that. There had always been something—at least, ever since Mama died.

I’d lived in a state of oblivion up to that point, a spoiled little girl to whom nothing was denied. She had listened to my stories, painstakingly written in notebooks, and had always gasped at the suspenseful parts and applauded at the big, heroic climaxes. She had encouraged me, even pushed me in the direction of my little-girl dreams. I was fearless then. I could conquer the world.

“Can I come in?”

I hadn’t noticed Miles’s knock at the door.

I should’ve been expecting him. He had to come to me, didn’t he? There was too much left unspoken. I put down the hairbrush and hoped I didn’t look too terrible, the mirror was out of range, so I couldn’t possibly know.

He sat—this time, he ignored the chair and perched on the edge of the bed, instead, near my knees. “How are you?”

“Feeling sheepish,” I admitted.

His smile was mercifully small. And kind. “You had your reasons. I’m sorry for them.”

“You risked yourself to pull me out. It was quite a swim. If you had drowned…”

“I’m a strong swimmer, and it was a calculated risk. Besides, you’re worth it.” He stared at me with an intensity that took my breath away.

I told myself I should look away, that it was too much. Only I couldn’t. I couldn’t even close my eyes to break the connection. What was he doing to me?

My laugh was weak, uneasy. “How can you say that, when I’ve been nothing but trouble since you first spotted me?”

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