Page 26 of Saving Grace
Leila reaches for Kaia, gently settling her into the crook of her elbow. “I need morning snuggles. Feels wrong without it,” she says, looking only slightly sorry.
“No worries. I have an appointment to get to, anyway,” I say as I notice the time on the stove.
She glances up at me worriedly.
“Just a checkup.”
Skepticism stays on her face, and I can’t fault her for it.
“Would you tell me if it was more?” she asks.
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. “Some of my shoulder injuries didn’t heal. I’m trying to avoid more surgeries. It’s constant inflammation since I went back to riding and working out, even though the use is minimal.”
“I expect you to tell me what the doctor says,” she says, one eyebrow raised as if daring me to argue.
“Yes, ma’am. Full report coming your way.”
“Don’t be a smartass. I need to know if you’re not supposed to hold ten pounds on that side so I can kick your butt if you aren’t taking care of yourself.”
“Promise I’ll let you know what she says.” I glance at the clock. “But I do need to go before I’m late.”
She shoos me, but I still lean forward and place a kiss on Kaia’s head before doing the same to Leila. “I’ll pick you guys up at four for dinner.”
“See you then.”
As soon as my boots hit the porch, I have my phone to my ear. It rings twice before Noah answers.
“Yeah,” he says, rarely one for words.
I cut straight to the chase. “That little farmhouse I bought from you—”
He cuts me off. “Already dropped the keys and alarm code off at your loft.”
I freeze halfway into my truck. I haven’t mentioned it to him in months. Hell, I never picked up the keys because of everything that happened. “How’d you know?”
“Had a feeling. Just had cleaners go through last week, so it’s ready for move in. Pretty sure Jett stocked the fridge and cabinets yesterday, too.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Sure thing, bud,” he says before ending the call.
Shaking my head at my buddy’s intuition, I climb the rest of the way into my truck and start the engine.
One task down. A million more to go.
***
“Let me be one thousand percent crystal clear, Drew,” says Dr. Lindsey, her voice stern, just like every other time she’s given me this same spiel. “You need to get this inflammation under control. The longer you let it build, the less likely it is it’ll ever improve.”
I look away from her no-nonsense stare, instead studying the bland color scheme of the exam room. Different shades of tan coat the walls, floor, and cabinets in soul-sucking boredom. My newest set of X-rays are visible on the monitor next to Dr. Lindsey’s petite frame. She’s been the only ortho in Havenwood for over a decade, and she’s damn good at her job. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to bolt at the first mention of having to see her.
She taps away on her keyboard, ignoring my bouts of panic as she tries to fill a new prescription for me. “I’m sending over 800 milligram ibuprofen tablets. Three a day for a week, one every eight hours.”
My head is shaking before she gets the third word out. Refusing to make eye contact, I say, “No. I can’t risk it.”
She looks up from her laptop, a sympathetic look already gracing her features. “Ibuprofen is safe for you to take, Drew. I wouldn’t prescribe it if I thought it would cause issues for you, but your body needs healing. It can’t heal if it keeps attacking itself.”
A groan slips out as I rub rough fingers along the back of my neck. Between the last few weeks—hell, months—and the increasing ache in my shoulder, a knot of tension has created a new home at the base my skull. “What other options do I have?” I ask even though I already know the answer.
