Page 207 of Wicked Proposal
If she notices the lack of a ring on my finger, she doesn’t say anything.
“SoAdamswas inside me? Damn. I’ll never live that down.”
“You took a bullet to the spleen,” I murmur. “He had to remove it. I’m sorry.”
“Spleen? Pfft.” She waves me off. “Nothing I can’t live without.”
“You’ll have a scar.”
“Cool. I’ll get a tattoo around it.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
“I do.” Her smile turns soft. She squeezes my hand once. “Learned it all from you.”
I stick around a little more, until Kallie’s eyes grow droopy. “I’ll stay with you tonight,” I promise.
“No way in hell,” she says. “You’ve got a kid at home.”
“Tamara can handle it.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that: You’ve got abedat home. Go use it. Sleep. Hug that hunk of yours for warmth if you have to.”
I don’t let my smile waver. She doesn’t need to deal with any more of my messes tonight—she’s already taken plenty of damage from them.
“Alright,” I whisper. “I’ll keep in touch with Maksim.”
“Don’t answer her texts until the sun’s back up,” Kallie instructs him. “I mean it. If you do, I’ll eat your phone.”
“That’d be one surgery too many, Kal.”
“Try me.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. You win. I’ll see you both in the morning.”
After bidding goodnight to both, I head back out into the parking lot. I spend five whole minutes looking for my Honda before remembering I didn’t drive here. That I didn’t take my car at all tonight.
Because Yulian came to pick me up.
I banish that thought and hail down a cab.
The whole ride home, all I can think about is Eli. I’ve never missed him so much. I want to hug him so bad. Bury my head in his perfect curls, smell his shampoo-and-Cheez-It-dust cologne.
The thought of having to tell him about Yulian is enough to break my heart all over again.
I climb the stairs two by two. It’s well past the time Reese should have headed off. He’s the one person I want to talk to right now. With Kallie out of commission, he’s the last emotional support human I’ve got left.
Tomorrow,I tell myself.We’ll talk tomorrow.
Except that, when I open the door, he’s still there.
On the floor.
Bleeding.
“Oh my God.” I rush to him, tossing my bag on the ground. “Reese, talk to me. Are you okay? What happened?!”
His face is swollen, his nose bent at an awkward angle. One eye is puffy and bruised, and his teeth are stained red.
