Page 99 of My Husband Problem

“Fine, yes, I’m going to find him right now,” I promise Miles, pulling open the therapy room door and stepping out into the hallway that leads down to the main part of the clinic.

“Good. I wish you many more orgasms with your hot, bossy husband,” Miles says. “Finally.”

It’s that last word, the echo of mine, that makes my eyes well up again.

Which is why when I step into the main part of the therapy clinic, the first thing Declan sees is me crying.

He stalks toward me, looking absolutely distraught and borderline furious. But I know he isn’t mad atme.

“You’re inPT? You had to rush out to an appointmenthere? Why didn’t you just tell me that? What’s going on?”

And all of the emotions of the past hour swirl together and rise up, almost choking me, and I blurt out, “My vagina is broken, Declan.”

CHAPTER 19

DECLAN

I surely heard her wrong.But I’m still trying to figure out what words all rhyme withvaginawhen Thea pushes Astrid and me into a private therapy room, says, “You need to talk about thisprivately,” and forcibly shuts the door behind us.

“That wasn’t actually how I practiced saying that to you.” Astrid is watching me with an expression I can’t quite describe.

“You practiced telling me that yourvaginaisbroken?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Well, yeah, you kind of need to know, but it’s not an easy thing to say.”

I step toward her. “What does that mean?” I ask. “That it’sbroken? The bones? You’re still having trouble from your pelvic fracture?”

I know all about her injury from her fall and the resultant surgeries. The fall had happened on national television, but, of course, no details would have been shared if Astrid and her team hadn’t agreed.

Astrid allowed the release of the information, having determined early on to put a positive spin on the incident that ended her gymnastics career. She informed the public of everything from the diagnoses to what was being done abouteach piece, then live-streamed her physical therapy sessions with Miles, the good, the bad, and the really bad.

By the time she walked out of the hospital, she had a huge crowd, both in person and online, cheering her on.

“No, it’s not my bones. I mean that fracture made it worse, but it’s muscular now.”

Okay, I know female anatomy, thank you very much. I know the bones of the pelvis, and I know there are muscles there, surrounding, yes, the vagina. So…

She wipes her hand over her cheek, reminding me that there were tears there a moment ago, and I step forward again. “You’re in therapy. Andcrying. You’re obviously in pain.”

And it’s killing me. I’m literally itching to scoop her up and…I’m not sure. I don’t know what to do with her or for her. But everything in me is screaming to dosomething. To fix it. To make it better.

To fuckingtouch her. Whether that’s to make myself feel better, to convince myself that she’s whole and breathing and fine, or if it’s to comfort her somehow, I’m not sure.

Maybe it’s both.

She shakes her head. “Actually no. Much less pain.”

I scowl. “You’recrying.”

“Happy tears,” she tells me. “I had a really good therapy session.”

I like that. But I’m losing patience. “I’ve just spent the past hour convinced that you were so horrified to find me touching you that you bolted, possibly running all the way to New Orleans to the airport, to get on a plane and moveanothertwo thousand miles away.”

She stares at me.

“It’s not like that’s entirely crazy, and you couldn’t make it happen,” I point out.

I’m very proud of myself for not yelling.