Page 68 of Smooth Sailing
There’d been a car accident. He’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Oh God. His heart hammered against his ribs. Paloma had been there, hadn’t she? He vaguely recalled her voice, soft and worried . . . No, that was after. She kept waking him during the night, her words blurring together.
Shit. Had he hit another person on the road? The thought sucker punched him in the gut. His lungs seized. Each breath came shorter, faster, scraping his throat raw. The room tilted and swayed, the walls closing in. He blinked rapidly, but the world blurred, darkening at the edges.
The door creaked open, and Paloma appeared, balancing two steaming mugs of coffee. “You’re awake,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “How are you feeling?”
“Did I hit someone?” His voice cracked, high, and strangled, each word clawing its way out.
She rushed forward, kneeling in front of him, her hands cool against his clammy cheeks. “No, Max. No,” she said, her voice cutting through the roaring in his ears. “You hit the traffic median.”
Her cool hands anchored him, and he focused on her face, on the gentle pressure of her fingers against his cheeks. He drew in a shaky breath, then another, each coming a little easier than the last.
“Traffic median,” he repeated, the words still unsteady. The room’s spinning slowed, the edges of his vision sharpening. His shoulders dropped a fraction, some of the tension uncoiling.
He closedhis eyes, breathing in her calm and exhaling his relief. In, out. In, out. He opened them again after a count of five or maybe five hundred. The world seemed more solid, more real.
“Okay,” he murmured, his voice low but no longer strangled. “Okay. Just the median. No one else.” His hand, now a little steadier, covered hers.
She stood, her warmth and comfort leaving him. Picking up the mugs from the dresser, she handed one to him and perched on the edge of the bed, her posture oddly stiff. There was a distance in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, and it made his heart sink.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The corner of her mouth dipped down. “For what?”
Where to start? For doing exactly what she feared would happen if they were more than business partners—complicating her life, messing with her career. He settled for, “Calling you. Keeping you up half the night. Missing your morning appointment.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Her tone was almost flat. That hurt as much as the bruises from the accident.
He could fix this. Get his shit together and help more than hinder her. “What time are you leaving for Traverse City? Don’t worry about dropping me off at home. I’ll call Jackson. See if he can pick me up.”
“I’m not going. At least, not today.”
He paused, the mug halfway to his mouth. He returned it to his lap. “What? Why not?”
“The delivery people were due to arrive at the Sterling house early. I wouldn’t have made it on time.”
Because ofhim. Because she’d come to the hospital forhim.
Bits and pieces from last night came back. She’d watched over him during the night. He rubbed the spot over his heart, ignoring the tender bruises. He loved and hated that she’d done both.
“Felixis covering for me. I told him we’d be there tomorrow or the next.”
That caught his attention, pausing his spiral. He couldn’t leave for Traverse City in the next day or so. “I can’t go. I have to call the insurance company. I was driving a work truck. Shit. I’m going to be late for—”
“I’ve already spoken to Grace. She’s going to take care of the truck stuff. She also called in someone named Greg to cover your appointments today. In fact, she said you’re good for the rest of the week. Heading up to finish the Sterling house won’t be an issue.”
His chest tightened. She’d done so much and rearranged her entire schedule all because of his carelessness. And what had he given her in return? Nothing but complications and setbacks. First, he’s the catalyst for the situation with the Thompsons, and now this accident. He’d forced her to miss an important appointment and burden herself with his care. The familiar ache of self-loathing settled in his gut. Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up.
“I’m so sorry for all of this. You shouldn’t have had to—”
“Don’t.” Her tone was gentle but still distant. “It’s fine. Really.”
The tightness around her eyes and the slight downward tilt of her mouth told a different story. But he didn’t want to push or make things worse than they already were. Instead, he’d make it up to her the only way he knew how: by fixing his mistakes.
Gritting his teeth, Max turned, his bare feet hitting the bedroom rug. A hiss of pain escaped him, and every bruised muscle protested the movement. His forgotten coffee sloshed over the mug, dripping onto his boxer briefs and leg.
“Max,” she gasped, reaching for his mug, her fingers brushing against his. Instead of pulling away, he gently trapped her hand against the ceramic, his thumb tracing a small circle on her skin.
The bruising . . .” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the angry purple splotches marring his chest. Her free hand hovered inches from his skin, not quite touching.
