Page 36 of Every Chance After

She smirks. “Okay, Grady.”

CHAPTERNINE

Marnie

Ivy rollsme to the entrance, where Grady drives up in a classic, red and white Ford truck with honking big tires and a loud rumble like the purr of a very happy cat. It squeaks to a stop, and I chuckle—this isn’t what I expected.

Lifting and bending from the chair to the truck steals my amusement. It’s downright excruciating. Sharp, angry pains race across my belly. Grady’s right—I’ll need more help than I expect.

Getting an early release from the hospital may not be one of my winning ideas.

Unless the game is pain. I’d win and get an award for best sportsmanlike conduct.

Not that I want to tell him about my pain. This man has wiggled around in my insidesandwitnessed me at my absolute neediest—I refuse to give him another show. I can’t let myself be so vulnerable—not with the people who claim to love me and certainly not with a stranger.

Even a stranger with an uncanny knack for showing up when I need him and superior hand-holding skills.

I ease into the truck. Grady refrains from throwing any I-told-you-so’s at me, even as I wince, moan, and otherwise fail to smile through it. He’s gracious rather than grouchy, for now, anyway.

I try for quickness, nerves heightened over relying on a stranger’s help.

But he braces me gently, our arms snaked together, and says, “Go slow,” not like an order but like permission. The same way holding my hand felt like permission to cry.

I breathe and obey, resting my weight against him because I have no choice. Relying on my muscles hurts too much. Once seated, he eases my legs inside the cab. He perches on the running board, leaning over to buckle me in. He smells like a fresh shower and pine.

Though he’s a smidge older than me… well, more than a smidge—a decade older—I can’t deny that those extra years have done him a favor. He’s not just hot but ruggedly handsome. Classic. Time-tested. It’s a shame his attractiveness is usually hidden behind his grouchy demeanor. It’s like he wears a sign that says,“Leave me alone.”

He closes the door with a soft click beside me, loads my things in the back, and comes to the driver’s side, carrying Frilly Willie. He places that between us, belting it to keep it from sliding. Once behind the wheel, he glances my way. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

The engine revs with an impressive growl. The old truck has a long bench front seat, a stick shift rising from the floor, and nothing digital.

“Um, is this yours?”

“No, my Dad’s. It was my grandfather’s. We call it The Beast.”

I smirk. “Aw, a nickname? Cute. It’s sweet that you’re keeping it in the family.”

“I would’ve brought something more comfortable if I’d known I’d be taking you home. You’ll feel every bump. If you need me to slow down, say so.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, just as a small dip in the road makes my insides twinge. In my stationary bed at the hospital, I had no clue that movement would hurt like this. Every time he shifts or brakes, my body takes offense.

“Breathe easy,” he says after a few miles. “It’s normal to feel pain like that.”

“Is it?” I say, breathless and unsure how I’ll endure the half-hour out of the city toward Seagrove.

“Yes. Your injury and surgical sites are tender. Your skin, muscles, tendons, arteries, and organs have experienced trauma, and although that soreness is required for healing, jostling worsens it. It’s your body telling you to stay still and give it time.”

“I’m getting the message,” I moan.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know. Keep talking? What’s it like being a vet?”

The question irritates him. His rough hands clench the steering wheel while he navigates typical Wilmington traffic, which always seems congested no matter what day it is. He goes slow, double-checking his mirrors whenever he merges. I wonder if the accident made him nervous about driving or if he’s nervous about drivingme.

“What’s it like being a cashier?” he redirects, either too distracted by traffic or unwilling to talk about himself. Most likely, it’s the latter.

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