Page 96 of Romancing the Grump
“Notmarried,” she says. “Divorced. But no kids.”
“And he asked you to dinner.”
“Yes? Is it a terrible idea? He’s, like, ten years older than I am.”
“Um, it might be a terrible idea?” I say. “But also, age is just a number. Do you like him?”
“So much. He’s so charming. And so good with patients, and he has this amazing smile, and I am completely enamored in a way that scares me a little bit.”
“Right. Got it. So you needmeto lecture you and remind you of all the reasons why you need to be supremely careful.”
She breathes out a sigh. “Yes, please.”
I love it when my sisters give me free rein to use my attorney brain on them, and I do averythorough job for Lucy. We talk about power dynamics and age gaps and motives and job security and all the questions she should be asking herself before and after their date. We talk about what she wants for her future and whether it will align with what he wants, considering their differing circumstances. We talk about her tendency to giveeveryonethe benefit of the doubt and how risky that can be when this man is already in a position of authority over her.
By the end of my lecture, Lucy seems sufficiently grounded. But somewhere about halfway through, I started to feel like I was also lecturing myself. Lucy’s situation is entirely different from mine, but all the reminders about goals and motives and future plans—those matter for me too.
I end the call with my sister and make my way back inside, newly determined to be more careful with my heart.
But then I sneak into Nathan’s bedroom to check on him and find him awake.
There’s a light on in the hallway, and the bedroom door is cracked, so I can just make out the shape of him on the bed. He’s on his back, one arm over his head, the covers pulled up to his waist. His eyes are clear, his face relaxed, and he looks…perfect, honestly. There’s no other word to use.
He holds out a hand, beckoning me forward, and I immediately go, slipping my fingers into his and letting him tug me onto the bed. “I thought you might have left.”
“I wouldn’t leave.” I lift my free hand to his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Better? I think. Medicated, at least.”
I offer him the rest of the Liquid IV he didn’t drink before he fell asleep, and he downs it in just a few swallows.
“Good job,” I say as I take the empty bottle back and set it on the nightstand.
Nathan chuckles as he leans back on his pillow. “You must be pretty special because I’m not normally such a compliant patient.”
He scoots over a little, patting the bed beside him, and I stretch out, resting my head in the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapped around my back.
So much for my lecture about protecting my heart. Thirty seconds in Nathan’s presence, and I’m already forgetting. It just feels so good, soeasyto be here with him.
“When have you been a patient before?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
Nathan chuckles. “Pick an injury. Broken collarbone, busted knee, torn ligaments in my shoulder. Concussions at least three different times. Then there’s the contusions, lacerations, stitches more times than I can count…”
“I don’t want this to sound like a judgmental question, because it isn’t,” I say. “But why do you do it?”
“Why do I play?”
“Yeah.”
He takes a deep breath, my head moving with the rise and fall of his chest. “Because I’m good at it, I guess?”
“That’s not a real reason.”
“Sure it is.”
“It’s not. You’re good because you’ve been playing for so long. Also genetics, and the fact that you work so hard. But why did you play before you were good? Why did you keep at it?”
This question takes him longer to answer, so long that Iwonder if he’s fallen asleep. The only thing that lets me know he hasn’t is the light touch of his fingers brushing up and down my back.
