Page 67 of Smooth Sailing
No. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The last time it had was with her fiancé, who had left her heart homeless.
Panic clawed at her throat, threatening to choke her. This wasn’t part of the plan. She didn’t do deep. She didn’t do vulnerable. Not anymore.
But as her eyes traced the lines of Max’s battered face, she feared it was too late. She was already in freefall, and the ground was rushing to meet her. Fight or flight warred within her, leaving her paralyzed between opposing impulses—to flee from these dangerous emotions or to burrow deeper into them.
“I should . . .” Do what? Leave? “You should rest,” she finally managed, gently disentangling from him and standing. “Let’s get out of here.”
She helped him get dressed and discharged. The squeak of wheelchair wheels echoed through the hospital’s endless corridor as she pushed Max toward the exit. Fluorescent lights cast long shadows ahead of them, stretching his silhouette into a distorted shape on the polished floor. From behind, she saw the slight slouch of his shoulders and the tilt of his head as he leaned it against the chair’s headrest. Even without seeing his face, she could sense his exhaustion, his vulnerability.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he twisted around, a flicker of pain crossing his features before he masked it with a wan smile. “I feel ridiculous being rolled out.”
“Hospital rules.” His frustration was palpable, and she wanted to ease it. “Think of it as your chariot, Your Majesty. Complete with your chauffeur.”
He chuckled softly and winced. “Well, if I’m royalty,” he said, his voice rough but warm, “does that make you my knight in shining . . . Chucks?”
“It does,” she said, pushing through the hospital doors.
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and silence. Every few minutes, her eyes were drawn to his form slumped in the passenger seat, his features softened by medication-induced sleep. Each time, something in her chest tightened so intense it bordered on pain.
She pulled into her driveway and rested a hand on his knee, gently shaking him awake. “We’re home.”
His eyes fluttered open, a small smile forming on his lips. “Home,” he repeated, the word carrying a weight she wasn’t ready to examine.
Getting him inside was a slow process. Each wince, each sharp intake of breath as he moved, had her tightening her grip on him, torn between the desire to pull him closer and the instinct to run.
Finally, they reached her bedroom. She helped him sit on the edge of the bed and kneeled to remove his shoes.
“Thank you,” Max said, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached out, his fingers brushing along her cheek and jaw. “For everything.”
“We should get some sleep,” she managed to say through all the emotions lodged in her throat.
He nodded, and she helped him get under the covers. She walked to the other side of the bed, her movements mechanical as she slipped under the sheets. The small distance between them was both too vast and not nearly enough.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware of his presence beside her. The steady rhythm of his breathing filled the quiet room. She should be comforted by it, relieved that he was safe and here. Instead, each breath seemed to chip away at the walls she’d so carefully built around her heart.
The blankets shuffled, and then his fingers found hers. He sighed as if he’d found all he needed. Almost immediately, his breathing evened out in sleep.
Her self-protection started repeating its mantra: pull away, protect yourself. She knew how this story ended—with heartbreak and abandonment. Instead, she held his hand tight and scooted closer.
The night deepened around them, yet she lay awake, Max’s hand warm in hers, facing a truth she could no longer deny: she was falling for him, hard and fast. And she had no idea what to do about it.
Chapter Thirty
November 7th, 8:30 a.m.
Asearing bolt shot through Max’s shoulder, ripping a gasp from his throat. His eyes flew open, then squeezed shut, blocking the sun’s blinding rays. Waves of pain radiated outward, ebbing and flowing like a relentless tide. He forced his eyes open again, squinting against the glare until unfamiliar shapes emerged.
This wasn’t his bedroom. The last wisps of sleep clinging to his mind evaporated. His senses sharpened, and a sweet aroma enveloped him–wildflowers mingling with hints of coconut. His fingers brushed against soft, light blue fabric.
Paloma’s house. He was at Paloma’s house.
“Paloma?” The sheets rustled as he shifted his weight onto one elbow and rolled. White-hot pain flared across his upper back and down his arm. A strangled gasp escaped him as the spasm seized his muscles, freezing him mid-motion. He straightened, sucking a lungful of air and glancing at his shoulder. What the hell had happened?
A large, angry bruise dominated his shoulder and chest. The discoloration spread in an almost circular pattern but with irregular edges. At its center was an intense purplish-black blotch about the size of a grapefruit. Spidering out from the main area, lighter red and pink splotches extended toward the neck and down the upper arm.
He ran his fingers along a thin, parallel stripe of deep bruises from his shoulder to his upper chest. Flashes assaulted his mind: blinding headlights, a sickening crunch, the acrid smell of deployed airbags.
