Page 49 of Groomsman to Groom

The moment hangs between us, electric with things unsaid, until a flurry of activity breaks the spell. Medics rush toward us. Production assistants hover anxiously. And then, unexpectedly, Gabby appears, pushing through them all with surprising authority.

“Give her space,” she snaps at a cameraman who’s zoomed in on my bloodied arm. She kneels beside me, her earlier antagonism nowhere in evidence. “That’s a nasty cut. Don’t try to stand yet.”

I stare at her, bewildered.

“I was a lifeguard for three summers, Brielle. Basic first aid is like second nature.” Her hands are gentle as she examines the gash on my arm, though her voice maintains its typical sharpness. “Besides, contrary to what you probably think, I don’t actually want anyone dead. Even a Trekkie.”

Despite everything, I laugh, then wince as pain shoots through my arm. “Thanks, Gabby.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t. I have a reputation to maintain.” But there’s a softness in her eyes that belies her words.

Hayes hasn’t moved from my side, one hand still protectively on my shoulder. “We need to get her to a hospital,” he tells the medics who’ve arrived with a stretcher. “She needs stitches.”

“I’m fine,” I protest weakly, attempting to stand and immediately regretting it as the world tilts. Maybe I’ve lost more blood than I realize?

“You’re going to the hospital, and I’m coming with you.” Hayes’s voice is gentle but brooking no argument.

Darren materializes from the chaos, his producer’s instincts clearly torn between concern and opportunity. “How can I help?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll get the other women back to the villa.”

Hayes says, “Thanks, Darren.”

I’m loaded onto a stretcher despite my embarrassed protests, the pain in my arm making a convincing counterargument to my insistence that I don’t need the hospital. As they lift me, I catch sight of the other contestants watching from a safe distance—Serena looking worried, Luna’s expression unreadable, and the onlookers in various states of shock and curiosity.

“I’ll check on you later,” Gabby says, squeezing my hand briefly before stepping back to let the medics work. There’s something almost respectful in her gaze now, as if my spectacular wipeout and Hayes’s rescue have somehow elevated me in her estimation.

The ambulance ride passes in a blur of pain and dizziness. Hayes sits beside me, holding my uninjured hand, his thumb brushing rhythmically across my knuckles. His camera is gone, abandoned in his rush to reach me. The realization of what that means—that he chose me over his professional equipment, his contractual obligations, everything—sends a warmth through me that has nothing to do with the Spanish sun.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says, not for the first time. I’m not sure if he’s reassuring me or himself.

“Your camera,” I manage. “You left it.”

He looks surprised, then shakes his head. “It’s replaceable. You’re not.”

The hospital is mercifully efficient. I’m whisked into an examination room where a doctor with kind eyes and limited English assesses me with the help of a translator. Hayes never leaves my side, though he steps back respectfully during the physical examination. The diagnosis comes quickly: a laceration on my arm that requires twelve stitches. No broken bones, no internal injuries.

“You’re very lucky,” the doctor tells me after my arm has been cleaned, numbed, and sewn up with efficient precision. “Things could’ve been so much worse.”

“She needs to rest,” the translator adds, directing this to Hayes as if he’s in charge of me.

Hayes nods seriously. The doctor prescribes pain medication, then leaves us alone in the small examination room to wait for discharge papers.

The silence between us feels weighted with everything we haven’t said. Hayes pulls his chair closer to my bed, his expression haunted.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he finally says, voice rough. “When I saw you fall... when I saw those bulls heading straight for you...”

“You risked your life for me,” I say, the reality of it still sinking in.

He laughs, the sound hollow. “I wouldn’t go that far—” He stops, swallows. “But I would. When someone I… care about is in danger.”

The hesitation hangs between us. Someone I what? Love? Could love?

“Why did you do it?” I ask, needing to know.

Hayes’s eyes meet mine, all pretense stripped away. “Because I couldn’t not do it. Because the thought of anything happening to you...” His voice cracks. “I’ve already lost someone I lovedonce. I watched her die while I wasn’t there. I couldn’t—I won’t stand by and watch it happen again.”

The raw honesty of his words hits me harder than my fall on the cobblestones. This isn’t Bachelor Hayes speaking, the carefully edited version who distributes measured affection to multiple women. This is real Hayes—the widower, the father, the man who carries grief and love in equal measure.

“Hayes,” I whisper, reaching for his hand. “I’m okay. I’m right here.”

---