Page 37 of Love and Other Risky Business

“No, I like her.” And my balls where they are. “Besides, Nic makes all the cake.” Including the ones Mina forced herself to eat thinking my mom had baked them, I’d wager. “He’s still staying here?”

My mom sighs, but she takes the bait and Nic saves the day without being present.

My backdoor into the stunt world is still there, a lifeline that, for the moment, I need, even if a part of me suspects it isn’t open at all.

Chapter thirteen

Timothy

Mybedisafluffy cloud, but I can’t fall asleep. The anger I felt earlier is gone, and in the quiet of the night, I feel lost.

Through my cracked bedroom door, I hear the rattle of ice hitting a glass. Nic, home after a long day of filming. I push myself up slowly. The world barely spins, but I take my time, pulling on some lightweight sweats and shuffle-stepping out of my room in case I get dizzy or miss a step in the dark.

Mina left her door open a crack.

Farther down the hall, my parents’ door is closed, but I can still hear Dad snoring through it.

I’ll have to apologize in the morning for my attitude at dinner. I know Mom’s pecking comes from a place of love, but Christ on a stick. I’ll find another job and safer hobbies when I’m good and ready.

Or never. Never’s good too.

I pause at Mina’s door and listen for the soft sounds of sleep, but instead, I hear a muffled sob.

“Mina?” I push the door open and step into her room. It’s dimly lit and I make a mental note to order some blackout curtains. She stiffens before rolling over to sit up. The desire to scoop her into my arms is so strong fighting it leaves me shaking. But I’m working on boundaries. “What’s wrong?”

She sniffles, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t wake you, did I? I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t wake me.” I step closer. I’ve seen Mina cry a few times, but only once because she was sad, on the night we met. Every other time it’s been her awful periods. “Do you need a heating pad or some pain relief?”

“What? No.” Her hands drop to the bed. “It—everything finally caught up with me, I guess. The accident, my job, my apartment, all of it. And I’m scared.”

“Of what?” I ask, sitting on the edge of her bed.

She shakes her head, bites her lip, and finally spits it out. “I don’t want you to go back as a stunt coordinator.”

Shit. I’m the reason she’s crying. I hate that. I want to make her laugh like I always do, but I can’t think of a goddamn thing to say to accomplish that.

The masochist in me reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes are dark, shimmery pools in the dim light and she stares at me in that soul-drinking way.

Mina has never kept her dislike of my job a secret, so this isn’t a surprise. She doesn’t like to hear about the stunts themselves, so over the years, I’ve tailored my conversation with her to be about the people when I talk about the job, rather than whatever cool stunt I did. It sucks, but I get it. She lost her parents to a climbing accident—of course, she doesn’t want to hear about the time my parachute tangled or the time I bounced off an airbag and broke three ribs.

“Okay,” I hear myself say. Acknowledgment of what she wants, not acquiescence. I’m not going to fight her on this right now.

Her head falls forward until it rests against my shoulder and since her body is shaking again, I wrap my arms around her and pull her close to me. So much for my fucking walls.

“Life isn’t risk-free,” I say softly into her hair. “A piano could fall on my head while I’m walking down the street.”

She ignores my attempt at levity. “You promised,” she says, her lips brushing over my collarbone. I’m so caught up in the sensation, it takes me a moment to realize what she said. “You promised you’d retire, Timothy.”

I did when I woke after surgery, and I even meant it in my drug-addled post-surgery brain. But now…I don’t want to give up my career for a friend. Even a best friend. That’s not fair.

I can’t make any promises, so I say nothing, holding her close like she held me earlier. She must be exhausted because she falls asleep in minutes. I want to lie next to her, listening to her soft breathing until I doze off, but that’s the opposite of building a wall, so I gently lay her down, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders.

Placing a soft kiss on her forehead—I am really not good at walls—I head downstairs.

In the dark of night, with the glow of the pool lights reflecting off all the glass windows, it’s easy to admit the truth. I’ve built so much of who I am around what I do for fun and work. If I retire, I’ll become a ghost. There is nothing left of me without my career.

I grab a tumbler from a cupboard, filling it with ice before pulling a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge. I know my mom, and it takes me ten seconds to find her stash of edibles. I grab one and hide the rest in a cupboard where she’ll never find them. Not without a ladder.

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